uck wi' her till one neet I was
goin' home through th' snow, and I seed her afore tighten' th' drift wi'
nowt but a thin shawl over her head; so I goes up behind her an' I says
to her, steady and respecful, so as she wouldna be feart, I says:--

"'Lass, let me see thee home. It's bad weather fur thee to be out in by
thysen. Tak' my coat an' wrop thee up in it, an' tak' hold o' my arm an'
let me help thee along.'

"She looks up right straightforrad i' my face wi' her brown eyes, an' I
tell yo' Mester, I wur glad I wur a honest man 'stead o' a rascal, fur
them quiet eyes 'ud ha' fun me out afore I'd ha' done sayin' my say if
I'd meant harm.

"'Thank yo' kindly Mester Hibblethwaite,' she says, 'but dunnot tak' off
tha' coat fur me; I'm doin' pretty nicely. It is Mester Hibblethwaite,
beant it?'

"'Aye, lass,' I answers, 'it's him. Mought I ax yo're name.'

"'Aye, to be sure,' said she. 'My name's Rosanna--'Sanna Brent th' folk
at th' mill alius ca's me. I work at th' loom i' th' next room to thine.
I've seed thee often an' often.'

"So we walks home to her lodgins, an' on the way we talks together
friendly an' quiet loike, an th' more we talks th' more I sees she's
had trouble an' by an' by--bein' on'y common workin' folk, we're
straightforrad to each other in our plain way--it comes out what her
trouble has been.

"'Yo' p'raps wouldn't think I've been a married woman, Mester,' she
says; 'but I ha', an' I wedded an' rued. I married a sojer when I wur a
giddy young wench, four years ago, an' it wur th' worst thing as ever I
did i' aw my days. He wur one o' yo're handsome, fastish chaps, an' he
tired o' me as men o' his stripe alius do tire o' poor lasses, an' then
he ill-treated me. He went to th' Crimea after we'n been wed a year,
an' left me to shift fur mysen. An' I heard six month after he wur dead.
He'd never writ back to me nor sent me no help, but I couldna think he
wur dead till th' letter comn. He wur killed th' first month he wur out
fightin' th' Rooshians. Poor fellow! Poor Phil! Th' Lord ha' mercy on
him!'

"That wur how I found out about her trouble, an' somehow it seemed to
draw me to her, an' mak' me feel kindly to'ards her; 'twur so pitiful to
hear her talk about th' rascal, so sorrowful an' gentle, an' not gi' him
a real hard word for a' he'd done. But that's alius th' way wi' women
folk--th' more yo' harry's them, th' more they'll pity yo' an' pray for
yo'. Why she wurna more than twenty-two then