“I am the Lock,” said the man.

“The Lock?”

“I am the Deputy Lock, on job, and this is the lock-house. (Lock or Deputy Lock, it’s all one, while the t’other man’s in the hospital.) What’s your parish?”

“Parish!” She was up from the truckle-bed directly, wildly feeling about her for her basket, and gazing at him in affright.

“You’ll be asked the question down town,” said the man. “They won’t let you be more than a casual there. They’ll pass you on to your settlement, Missis, with all speed. You’re not in a state to be let come upon strange parishes ’ceptin as a casual.”

“ ’Twas the deadness again!” murmured Betty Higden, with her hand to her head.