He was the first to speak. "Do you know whose grave this is?" he asked.
"Yes, sir," answered Mrs. Peckover, glancing indignantly at the broken
board and the mud and brambles all about it. "Yes, sir, I _do_ know;
and, what's more, I know that it's a disgrace to the parish. Money has
been paid twice over to keep it decent; and look what a state it's left
in!"
"I asked you whose grave it was," repeated Mat, impatiently.
"A poor, unfortunate, forsaken creature's, who's gone to Heaven if ever
an afflicted, repenting woman went there yet!" answered Mrs. Peckover,
warmly.
"Forsaken? Afflicted? A woman, too?" Mat repeated to himself,
thoughtfully.
"Yes, forsaken and afflicted," cried Mrs. Peckover, overhearing him.
"Don't you say no ill of her, whoever you are. She shan't be spoken
unkindly of in my hearing, poor soul!"
Mat looked up suddenly and eagerly. "What's your name?" he inquired.
"My name's Peckover, and I'm not ashamed of it," was the prompt reply.
"And, now, if I may make so bold, what's yours?"
Mat took from his pocket the Hair Bracelet, and, fixing his eyes
intently on her face, held it up, across the grave, for her to look at.
"Do you know this?" he said.
Mrs. Peckover stooped forward, and closely inspected the Bracelet for a
minute or two.
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