The curate was on the spring after her when he was arrested by the
look of the draper: he stood fixed where she had left him, white and
trembling as if he had seen a ghost. He went up to him, and said in
a whisper:

"Who is she?"

"Mrs. Drew," answered the draper, and the curate was after her like
a greyhound.

A little crowd of the shop-people gathered in consternation about
their master.

"Pick up those pieces of glass, and call Jacob to wipe the floor,"
he said--then walked to the door, and stood staring after the curate
as he all but ran to overtake the swiftly gliding figure.

The woman, ignorant that her pursuer was again upon her track, and
hardly any longer knowing what she did, hurried blindly towards the
churchyard. Presently the curate relaxed his speed, hoping she would
enter it, when he would have her in a fit place for the interview
upon which he was, if possible, more determined than ever, now that
he had gained, so unexpectedly, such an absolute hold of her. "She
must be Emmeline's mother," he said to himself, "--fit mother for
such a daughter." The moment he caught sight of the visage lifted
from its regard of the sleeping youth, he had suspected the fact. He
had not had time to analyze its expression, but there was something
dreadful in it. A bold question would determine the suspicion.