"Is it so important as that?" said Paul, with a questioning look in his
eyes.

"Ay, I think so," replied the other.

George Preston was a teacher in the Hanover Sunday-school, and was some
two years older than Paul. He had more than average intelligence, and
had been known for years as a hard-working, saving fellow. They had
met at the Mechanics' Institute, where they had gone for classes, and,
while they had gone their different ways, mutual respect existed
between them.

"I expect Mrs. Dixon will have got my little room all ready," said
Paul, "so we shall be able to have a chat without interruption." And
the two threaded their way along the busy street towards Paul's
lodgings. Never did Paul realise how much he was liked until that
evening. It happened to be market day, and the streets were crowded
with people. Not only had the townspeople gathered together in the
centre of Brunford, but many had come in from a distance, and thus to a
casual visitor it might seem as though a fair were being held. Every
minute or so he was stopped by someone who came up to congratulate him
on his return, and to bid him welcome.

"Never fear, Paul lad," it was said to him again and again. "You shall
noan suffer for this, and 'appen Wilson and that lot will noan be the
happier for what they have done to thee. Art short of money, lad? If
a sovereign 'll be of any use to thee, thou can have it."

And from the ring of sincerity in their voices Paul knew that every
word was meant. For I should like to say here that, although the
Lancashire operative is rough, and sometimes a little coarse, there are
no kinder people on earth than those who live in the great
manufacturing centres of the North. In the main they are loyal to a
man, and as true as steel. Brunford is by no means an ideal place to
live in; indeed, from November to April its atmospheric conditions are
horrible beyond words. It rains nearly all the time, and, the air
being smoke-begrimed, the streets are covered with black, slimy mud,
offensive both to sight and to smell. The very conditions, too, under
which the people live must have a tendency to coarsen and to destroy
artistic feelings. The artisans know practically nothing about the
gardens common to the South-country peasant. Houses are often built
back to back, or only divided by a small paved yard, the front door is
nearly always right on to the street, and, even in cases where some
strip of garden is