It was not much, only that Christopher had not been buried in the grave where he was said to be buried, and that he had been taken wounded aboard the ship _Great Yarmouth_, of the fate of which ship fortunately she had heard nothing.

Still, slight as they might be, to Cicely these tidings were a magic medicine, for did they not mean the rebirth of hope, hope that for nine long months had been dead and buried with Christopher?
From that moment she began to mend.
When the Flounder, having slept off her drink, returned to the sick-bed, she stared at her amazed and muttered something about witchcraft, she who had been sure that she would die, as in those days so many women did who fell into hands like hers.

Indeed, she was bitterly disappointed, knowing that this death was desired by her employer, who now after all might let the Ford Inn to another.

Moreover, the child was no waster, but one who was set for life.

Well, that at least she could mend, and if it were done quickly the shock might kill the mother.