upstairs intoxicated with depression and anger, and, intoxicated with depression and anger, locked himself into sleep.

Tilly set slippers before the kitchen fire, and she also went to bed, leaving the door unlocked. Then the farm was in darkness, in the rain.

At eleven o'clock it was still raining. Tom Brangwen stood in the yard of the “Angel”, Nottingham, and buttoned his coat.

“Oh, well,” he said cheerfully, “it's rained on me before. Put 'er in, Jack, my lad, put her in — Tha'rt a rare old cock, Jacky-boy, wi' a belly on thee as does credit to thy drink, if not to thy corn.

Co' up lass, let's get off ter th' old homestead. Oh, my heart, what a wetness in the night! There'll be no