As a matter of fact Mrs. Dinnett had told everything to her bosom friend—­a woman who dwelt in a cottage one hundred yards from ’The Magnolias.’  She did not mention this, however.

“If you say there’s hope, I’ll try to believe it,” she answered.  “The man came here last night and Sabina wouldn’t see him, and God knows what’ll be the next thing.”

“Leave the next thing to me.”

“She’s given notice at the works.  He told her to.”

“Of course—­quite properly.  Now calm down and fetch me my walking boots.”

In half an hour Ernest was on his way to Bridport.  As Sabina, before him, his instinct led to Miss Ironsyde and he felt that the facts might best be imparted to her.  If anybody had influence with Raymond, it was she.  His tone of confidence before Mrs. Dinnett had been partly assumed, however.  His sympathies were chiefly with Sabina, for she was no ordinary mill hand; she had enjoyed his tuition and possessed native gifts worthy of admiration.  But she was as excitable as her mother, and if this vital matter went awry, there could be no doubt that her life must be spoiled.

Mr. Churchouse managed to get a lift on his way from a friendly farmer, and he arrived at Bridport Town Hall soon after ten o’clock.  While driving he put the matter from his mind for a time, and his acquaintance started other trains of thought.  One of them, more agreeable to a man of his temperament than the matter in hand, still occupied his mind when he stood before Jenny Ironsyde.

“You!” she said.  “I had an idea you never came into the world till afternoon.”

“Seldom—­seldom.  I drove a good part of the way with Farmer Gate, and he made a curious remark.  He said that a certain person might as well be dead for all the good he was.  Now what constitutes life?  I’ve been asking myself that.”

“It’s certainly difficult to decide about some people, whether they’re alive or dead.  Some make you doubt if they ever were alive.”

“A good many certainly don’t know they’re born; and plenty don’t know they’re dead,” he declared.

“To be in your grave is not necessarily to be dead, and to be in your shop, or office, needn’t mean that you’re alive,” admitted the lady.

“Quite so.  Who doesn’t know dead people personally, and go to tea with them, and hear their bones rattle?  And whose spirit doesn’t meet in their thoughts, or works, the dead who are still living?”

“Most true, I’m sure; but you didn’t come to tell me that?”

“No; yet it has set me wondering whether, perhaps, I am dead—­at any rate deader than I need be.”

“We are probably all deader than we need be.”

“But to-day there has burst into my life a very wakening thing.  It may have been sent.  For mystery is everywhere, and what’s looking exceedingly bad for those involved, may be good for me.  And yet, one can hardly claim to win goodness out of the threatened misfortunes to those who are dear to one.”