"Mercy," he said, "it is all arranged. Mr. Bonnithorne will see you into
the train this evening, and when you get to your journey's end the
person I spoke of will meet you."

The girl lifted her eyes beseechingly to his face.

"Not to-day, Hugh," she said in a broken whisper; "let me stay until
to-morrow."

He regarded her for a moment with a steadfast look, and when he spoke
again his voice fell on her ear like the clank of a chain.

"The journey has to be made. Every week's delay increases the danger."

The girl's eyes fell again, and the tears began to drop from them on to
the brown arms that she had clasped in front.

"Come," he said in a softer tone, "the train starts in an hour. Your
father is not yet home from the pit, and most of the dalespeople are at
the sports. So much the better. Put on your cloak and hat and take the
fell path to the Coledaie road-ends. There Mr. Bonnithorne will meet
you."

The girl's tears were flowing fast, though she bit her lip and struggled
to check them.

"Come, now, come; you know this was of your own choice."

There was a pause.

"I never thought it would be so hard to go," she said at length.

He smiled feebly, and tried a more rallying tone.

"You are not going for life. You will come back safe and happy."

The words thrilled her through and through. Her clasped hands trembled
visibly, and her fingers clutched them with a convulsive movement. After
awhile she was calmer, and said quietly:

"No, I'll never come back--I know that quite well." And her head dropped
on her breast and she felt sick at heart. "I'll have to say good-bye to
everything. There were Betsy Jackson's children--I kissed them all this
morning, and never said why--little Willy, he seemed to know, dear
little fellow, and cried so bitterly."

The memories of these incidents touched to overflowing the springs of
love in the girl's simple soul, and the bubbling child-voice was drowned
in sobs.

The man stood with a smile of pain on his face. He came close, and
brushed away her tears, and touched her drooping head with a gesture of
protestation.

Mercy regained her voice.

"And then there's your mother," she said, "and I can't say good-bye to
her, and my poor father, and I daren't tell him--"

Hugh stamped on the path impatiently.

"Come, come, Mercy, don't be foolish."

The girl lifted to his the good young face that had once Been bonny as
the day and was now pale with weeping and drawn dow