Outside it was dark and frosty. A gang of men lingered in the road
near the closed door. Aaron found himself among them, his heart
bitterer than steel.

The men were dispersing. He should take the road home. But the devil
was in it, if he could take a stride in the homeward direction. There
seemed a wall in front of him. He veered. But neither could he take
a stride in the opposite direction. So he was destined to veer round,
like some sort of weather-cock, there in the middle of the dark road
outside the "Royal Oak."

But as he turned, he caught sight of a third exit. Almost opposite was
the mouth of Shottle Lane, which led off under trees, at right angles
to the highroad, up to New Brunswick Colliery. He veered towards the
off-chance of this opening, in a delirium of icy fury, and plunged
away into the dark lane, walking slowly, on firm legs.




CHAPTER III

"THE LIGHTED TREE"


It is remarkable how many odd or extraordinary people there are in
England. We hear continual complaints of the stodgy dullness of the
English. It would be quite as just to complain of their freakish,
unusual characters. Only _en masse_ the metal is all Britannia.