When a child died in the village Mary Wells was sure to be sent with
words of comfort and substantial marks of sympathy.
Scarcely a day passed that something or other did not happen to make
the wound bleed; but I will confine myself to two occasions, on each of
which her heart's agony spoke out, and so revealed how much it must
have endured in silence.
Since the day when Sir Charles allowed her to sit in a little room
close to his study while he received Mr. Wheeler's visit she had fitted
up that room, and often sat there to be near Sir Charles; and he would
sometimes call her in and tell her his justice cases. One day she was
there when the constable brought in a prisoner and several witnesses.
The accused was a stout, florid girl, with plump cheeks and pale gray
eyes. She seemed all health, stupidity, and simplicity. She carried a
child on her left arm. No dweller in cities could suspect this face of
crime. As well indict a calf.
Yet the witnesses proved beyond a doubt that she had been seen with her
baby in the neighborhood of a certain old well on a certain day at
noon; that soon after noon she had been seen on the road without her
baby, and being asked what had become of it, had said she had left it
with her aunt, ten miles off; and that about an hour after that a faint
cry had been heard at the bottom of the old well--it was ninety feet
deep; people had assembled, and a brave farmer's boy had been lowered
in the bight of a cart-rope, and had brought up a dead hen, and a live
child, bleeding at the cheek, having fallen on a heap of fagots at the
bottom of the well; which child was the prisoner's.
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