eath. I know
that you love a young man who loves you, and also what it is that you
think keeps you apart from him.'

'And how do you know that, sir?' she asked, still with averted face.

Then he confessed, humbly enough, just how he did know it, and all that
he knew, and told her about his visit to Yarm. When he spoke of Yarm
and his visit to Daniel McGair she turned and looked full at him,
drinking in every word with hungry curiosity.

'Yes, sir, we left the place, an' I haven't heard o' him this nine year,
but I knowed he wasn't dead.'

'How did you know that, Jen?'

'Because, sir, when God A'mighty sees fit that he should die, I'll be
free o' him, that's all.'

'And aren't you going to marry?'

'Noae, sir. Johnnie an' me has talked it over, an' he says as how he'll
wait till such time as I'm free. An' I didn't say "no" to him, fur when
one knows what it is to love true, sir, one knows well it's noae use to
say as this thing's best or t'other, but just it's like being taken up
like a leaf by the wind an' moved whether one will or no. There's just
this diff'rence betwixt true love an' the common kind--the common kind
o' love moves ye i' the wrong way, an' true love i' the right; fur it's
a true word the blessed St. John said when he said that love is God.'

'Did St. John say that?' said Skelton.

'Yes, sir, I read it to mother just afore she died. An' Johnnie's gone
across the sea, sir, wi' his mother; he got a right good chance to
better hisself, an' I made him go. His ship sailed the day after
Christmas; an' I said, "Johnnie, I'll bide here, an' God 'ull take care
o' me as well as ye could yerself;" an' I said, "Johnnie, I'll pray
every day, night an' morning, that if ye can forget me, ye will; for if
ye can forget, then yer love's not o' the right sort, as I could take,
or God 'ud want ye to give; and if ye can't forget, then there's nowt to
say but as I'll bide here." An' I said, sir, as he munna think as loving
him made me sad, fur I was a big sight happier to love him, if he
forgets or if he comes again.'

'Will you live here; Jen, where the neighbours distrust you?'

'It 'ud just be the same any other place, sir, an' here I can work i'
the fields, spring and harvest, an' earn my own bread. I know the
fields, sir, an' the hills--they's like friends to me now, an' I knows
the dumb things about, an' they all knows me. It's a sight o' help one
can get, sir, when one's down wi' the sorrow o' all the worl