 it in the papers, and I felt I wasn't wanted.... No -
I couldn't come to the funeral,« repeated Arabella, who, seeming utterly unable
to reach the ideal of a catastrophic manner, fumbled with iterations. »But I am
glad I found the grave. As 'tis your trade, Jude, you'll be able to put up a
handsome stone to 'em.«
    »I shall put up a headstone,« said Jude drearily.
    »He was my child, and naturally I feel for him.«
    »I hope so. We all did.«
    »The others that weren't mine I didn't feel so much for, as was natural.«
    »Of course.«
    A sigh came from the dark corner where Sue sat.
    »I had often wished I had mine with me,« continued Mrs. Cartlett. »Perhaps
'twouldn't have happened then! But of course I didn't wish to take him away from
your wife.«
    »I am not his wife,« came from Sue.
    The unexpectedness of her words struck Jude silent.
    »O I beg your pardon, I'm sure,« said Arabella. »I thought you were!«
    Jude had known from the quality of Sue's tone that her new and
transcendental views lurked in her words; but all except their obvious meaning
was, naturally, missed by Arabella. The latter, after evincing that she was
struck by Sue's avowal, recovered herself, and went on to talk with placid
bluntness about her boy, for whom, though in his lifetime she had shown no care
at all, she now exhibited a ceremonial mournfulness that was apparently
sustaining to the conscience. She alluded to the past, and in making some remark
appealed again to Sue. There was no answer: Sue had invisibly left the room.
    »She said she was not your wife?« resumed Arabella in another voice. »Why
should she do that?«
    »I cannot inform you,« said Jude shortly.
    »She is, isn't she? She once told me so.«
    »I don't criticize what she says.«
    »Ah - I see! Well, my time is up. I am staying here to-night, and thought I
could do no less than call, after our mutual affliction. I am sleeping at the
place where I used to be barmaid, and to-morrow I go back to Alfredston. Father
is come home again, and I am
