An' I made haste, the light was getting so terrible strong; an' just as he'd got to the foot of the stairs, an' I was holding little Willie in my arms an' saying good-bye to him--" She let her head sink against the settle.

There was no more to say, and Marcella asked no more questions--she sat thinking.

Willie stood, a wasted, worn figure, by his mother, stroking her face; his hoarse breathing was for the time the only sound in the cottage.
Then Marcella heard a loud knock at the door.

She got up and looked through the casement window.

The crowd had mostly dispersed, but a few people stood about on the green, and a policeman was stationed outside the cottage.