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The doctor was saying, "It's a question of how we're going to get her in. She should be laid out on something flat."

"Can you put her in the carriage?"

The doctor looked at Timothy now and said, "That would be very awkward, sir, especially with the mess she's in."

"Never mind about the mess."

A voice from the crowd shouted, The flat cart an' horse is in the road, sir. It's high with hay but that can be dumped. You're welcome. "

"Thank you," the doctor called.

"Can you back it in here?"

"Aye, if the people'll move."

The people moved and the horse and cart was backed almost up to Anna's side, and she was lifted on to it by Nathaniel and Timothy. And when Timothy said, "I'll sit beside her, Nathaniel," Nathaniel raised his hand and answered quietly, "No; you get in the carriage, sir, I'll sit beside her." And Timothy, admitting to the prerogative of the father, went to the carriage now with the doctor and the policeman, and the carriage followed the flat cart in the long twilight as they took the road to Fellburn and the hospital, leaving a subdued and not a little fearful village behind them.

The following day the police arrested Arthur Lennon and Davey Carter as they were about to board a boat they had signed on at South Shields.

The boat was bound for Bergen.

Later in the day a cab arrived in the village, holding two policemen and an inspector, to arrest one Betty Carter for her being implicated in a most atrocious attack on a young girl.

The village was quiet, people spoke in under tones. The King's Head was full that night but The Swan was practically empty. The blacksmith and his son, the painter Willie Melton and his son, and a number of others were all conspicuous by their absence from The Swan. There was recalled in the village the conversation that had taken place one evening in the inn about tarring and feathering, and those who laughed about it.

In the King's Head the conversation was quiet as the events of the day were gone over. It was said that all the lass's family had remained at the hospital most of the night; the younger girl hadn't been to work that day nor the boy to the farm; and Mr. Timothy had been at the hospital too. It was also said that Mr. Simon from the Manor had been to the hospital. It was surmised that it was touch and go for the lass. If she didn't come round it would be a hanging job for two, that was sure. As for Betty Carter, well, she only put the feathers on her so it could be just a long stretch. But whichever way it went, this village would never be the same again. Why couldn't they have left them in the Hollow, alone?

They had done nobody any harm; in fact, in some ways they had done good. Look how they had taken those families off the moor. It was only four years ago that two old people and some hairns died out there.

And did anybody really believe the lass had broken up the couple in the Manor? It was known as loud as the headlines in a newspaper that those two had been at each other's throats ever since returning from their honeymoon. Betty Carter herself used to bring news in on her days off.

As for the lass being free an' all with Mr. Timothy, was it likely, seeing he had those fits? Everybody knew he was a book-learned man and her being a teacher like her dad, well they would have something in common, wouldn't they? But young Lennon had always been a vicious type. His father and Jack . well, they did the talking, but give them their due, they weren't vicious. No, a voice had put in, they were just the ones that passed on the under to set the fire alight, and he had actually done it to their barn, hadn't he? And yes, they all agreed that was right, that was right.

And so it went on, and from day to day now, while everyone waited.

When, a week later, the news spread through the village that the lass had sort of woken up and it was thought she might live, the majority drew in long breaths and said quietly, "Well, thank God for that!

There'll be no swingin' job, no matter what else. " It only took a swingin' job to get a village a very bad name; and there were families in this village that went back to the last century, such as the Wattses But then, of course, they had to leave. But Miss Penelope Smythe, her people went back a longer way, as did Clan Wallace's. And yes, the grocer's, John Fenton. Oh yes, the grocer; his wife Gladys was always yapping about ancestry. You would think they had made the village. One thing they had done, they had rooked it with their grocery charges. You could buy some of the stuff at only half the price in Fellburn. Gladys was crafty: she knew only too well you had to get to Fellburn and back, and if you hadn't a gig or a trap, that was tuppence on the carrier cart and extra if you had livestock.

Oh, the Fentons knew what they were about. Still, all those in the King's Head were glad to know that the lass had woken up.

Timothy's carriage drew up outside his house, with Simon following on horseback. After alighting, they went inside together, and the first words the butler said were, "How is she, sir?"

"She's still very low but she's holding her own."

"That's good news, sir." Then looking from one to the other, he enquired, "Is it something hot or a glass of wine you'll be taking, sir?"

Timothy now looked at Simon, and Simon said, "A brandy would be acceptable."

"And for me, too."

A little while later they were settled in the sitting- room and after no words had passed between them for some minutes, Simon, suddenly getting to his feet, walked to the window, saying, "I know how you are going to respond, but I must say it: she's suffered this indignity and terror for things she hasn't done; so she wouldn't have suffered any worse if she had done them. In fact, it wouldn't have happened."

"You mean, if she had fallen in with your wishes and become your mistress?"

Simon swung round now, saying, "Yes. Yes, I do, Tim. That's exactly what I mean."

"Well, she refused you, didn't she? And she'll always refuse you."

"We'll see about that."

"You won't! You won't, Simon. You won't."

"Who's to stop me? You."

"Yes, if I can."

"You would ask her to marry you?"

Timothy's mouth went into a hard line now as he looked at the other man.

"No," he said;

'because I wouldn't ask anyone to marry me. But she trusts me. I am her friend. She listens to what I say. And if it's the last thing I do I'll prevent her from following the pattern of her mother. However, there will be no need; she won't have you. At one time she might have had some feelings for you, in the way you imagine she still has, but I'm sure it's no more. What happened to kill it, for I think it is dead, I don't know. But something did happen:

perhaps you know what, apart from your having a wife. "

Slowly Simon turned away and looked out of the window again, and Timothy now asked, "Have you heard anything from Penella?"

"No; only that she's living in Newcastle as near Raymond as possible.

Not that that's going to do her much good. "

"I've always thought you were wrong in that direction, Simon. If she had thought so much of Raymond she would have married him when he gave her the child. It was you she wanted and has always wanted. Her chasing Raymond was to stir you up. And it did, but in the wrong way.

She wasn't prepared for that. And I must say this: if you had been of a more forgiving nature from the beginning, your life together would have been quite different from what it has turned out to be. The very fact that you could forgive her would have proved your love for her.

"

"Oh, shut up!" Simon now reached out, took up his half-empty glass from the table, threw off the remainder of the brandy, and said, "I must be on my way. But thank you, dear uncle, for your kind advice."

"You are very welcome, nephew," Timothy answered in the same vein; then added, "You can see yourself out."

But on nearing the door, Simon turned and, looking at Timothy, then round the room, he said, "I envy you this place, you know."

"I know you do; and not only that but my liberty, too."

"Huh! You're a clever old stick, aren't you?"

"Oh, yes. Perhaps not so much clever as old, being nine years your senior."

Simon went out on a harsh laugh and Timothy walked to the window, to see him emerge from the house and mount his horse, and the sight of the smart, lithe figure riding down the drive swept away the assurance he had assumed just a few minutes ago. Will she? he thought; and he answered himself, Yes, she might. Having suffered this indignity, this terrible indignity, she might think. What does anything matter any more? But whatever she should decide to do, life would never be the same for her again.

Anna was in hospital for three weeks and in a convalescent home for two further weeks, the latter having been arranged by Miss Netherton.

Then, on the day they brought her home it was into a house full of flowers and with the long table covered with gifts, in the middle of which was a large arrangement of fruit in a high-handled decorative basket trimmed with ribbon.

There were even presents from some of the villagers, as Maria pointed out: ginger cake, jam preserve, a box of home-made toffees; then the large boxes all tied up with ribbon: some, her mother pointed out, were from Mr. Simon and Mr. Timothy and others from the boys and Miss Netherton. And placed among all these were pretty cards wishing her well.

Anna had expressed her thanks quietly and in just a few words.

This was what was troubling the family: she didn't talk any more like she used to do. It was now more than five weeks since that awful time, but as the doctor said, it could be further weeks or perhaps months before she would really be herself again. Again and again he would say she was a lucky girl to be alive at all. And if she hadn't been taken to hospital and treated straightaway she would never have survived.

Unfortunately, they'd had to cut off some of her hair; it had been impossible to get it clear of the tar. And now the ends reached only to her shoulders. Yet, if anything, it seemed to enhance her face. In a strange way, though, it didn't seem to make her any younger as such a crop usually did, for her features appeared to have aged. She could have been a woman in her thirties.

She listened to the buzz of conversation around her, but didn't appear to hear any particular thing that was being said. Her mind seemed to have undergone a change: it no longer picked up and dealt with present issues, but would wander back into the past when she was young, when she was a girl sitting in the barn learning her lessons in the summer-time; or in the winter, hurriedly clearing the long table of the breakfast dishes and spreading the books out and looking across at her dada's bright face as he would laughingly say, "We will now call the register. Benjamin Dagshaw."

"Pesent, sir."

And her father would say yet again, "As I have informed you, Benjamin Dagshaw, you may be a peasant but that " pesent" is present." And there would be laughter. Then: "James Dagshaw."

"Present, sir, all of me."

More laughter.

"Cherry Dagshaw."

"I am not all here, sir; my heart's in the highlands."

"Your heart will be in your mouth, madam, in a moment."

"Annabel Dagshaw."

"I am all yours, sir."

Often such remarks would come later, but always they brought laughter with the lesson . "What are you smiling at, dear?"

She looked up at Maria.

"Was I smiling, Ma?" she said.

"Yes, you were. You must have been thinking something nice. What was it?"

"Oh, I don't know ... Ma?"

"Yes, dear?"

"I would like to go to bed."

"Then you shall go to bed. It's been a very trying day."

Timothy had left earlier, feeling that she would want to spend a quiet time with her family. Miss Netherton, too, had left with him, having said in an aside to Maria, "I'll come over tomorrow morning. I have news for you."

Now there were only Cherry, Jimmy, and Olan. Oswald had had to remain in the shop for, as he had said, someone must keep things going. But he had sent Anna a book by the poet Tennyson, entitled Ballads and other Poems.

So Maria and Cherry had helped to undress her and tuck her up in bed.

And when, later, Nathaniel

came in, he stood by her side and, taking hold of her limp hand, he said, "You are home, my dear, and I hope never to leave it."

And at this Anna closed her eyes and her mind left her childhood dreaming and leapt ahead into the everlasting future, during which time she would never again leave this house.

It was at the end of August when Arthur Lennon and David Carter, together with Beatrice Carter, were brought before the Justice in Newcastle to answer to the heinous crime that Arthur had committed against a young girl, which could have led to his being tried for the capital crime of murder had she not recovered.

His Lordship, John Makepeace Preston, sentenced Arthur Lennon to five years' hard labour, and David Carter, he who had aided and abetted him, to four years' hard labour, and Beatrice Carter, who had put the final touches on the outrageous and indecent act, three years in the House of Correction. And Arthur John Wallace, the boy who had been subjected to such fearful threats, which had now left him with defective speech not previously apparent, referred to as a stammer, the Justice commended for coming forward and speaking in detail about that which he had witnessed was being carried out by these three vicious people; and also for how he had related, albeit most painfully, the threat made to his person by the prisoner, Arthur Lennon.

There had been no response from anyone in the courtroom when the sentence was passed on Lennon, but when the Justice sentenced both David Carter and his sister, their mother had stood up and screamed, "They didn't do it! They didn't do it! He made them. You can't send her along the line."

After she was evicted from the courtroom, it was noted that her son stood with bowed head and shoulders, while Arthur Lennon stood white faced and with his eyes glaring, yet his body was trembling as if he were under shock. As for Betty Carter, it would have been expected of her that her face would have been awash with tears, but she remained dry-eyed and tight-lipped. And when the wardress held her shoulder, it was seen that she tried to shrug off her hand.