mment as he listened to the harrowing details and thought of the agony
of the market-place; and when she had ended her tale his voice was
broken with sobs.

"Thou sal niver want for a home, lass, so lang as I can addle a bite an'
a sup wi' my weyvin'."

"Happen Learoyd will be wantin' me back agean when he's gotten ower
things a bit."

"Then he'll noan get thee," and the weaver struck his fist on the table
with unusual vehemence. "A wilful man mun have his way, fowks say; an' I
reckon Sam Learoyd has had it; but he'll noan have it twice ower, if I
know owt about justice."

"But he's bin sadly tewed wi' mother leavin' him an' all," replied Mary,
"and there's them fits that he has to contend wi'. If he wants me I mun
go. There's nobody left on t' farm to fend for him."

"If he cooms here he'll find t' door sparred agean him," exclaimed
Parfitt, in his indignation.

Mary shook her head sadly, but made no reply.

They sat awhile in silence, gazing into the dying fire, and then the
girl, with a timid "I thank thee for what thou's done for me," withdrew
to the inner room and cried herself to sleep. The weaver lit his clay
pipe and, bending forwards over the grey ashes of his peat-fire, buried
himself in his thoughts till the clock, striking eleven, roused him from
his reverie. He slowly rose, placed a cushion on the settle, and without
undressing, flung himself on the hard boards and fell asleep.

Days and weeks passed and Mary Whittaker still remained in the weaver's
cottage. The cowed look in her eyes passed gradually away, though it
would come back whenever a man's footfall was heard in the street
outside, and a cold fear seized her at the thought that Learoyd was at
hand to demand her return to the farm. But he never came, and Mary grew
more and more at ease in her new surroundings. The change from the roomy
farmstead, with its wide horizons of moors and woods, to the narrow
cottage in the sunless back street was a strange one for her. She
missed, too, the farm work: the churning of the butter and the feeding
of the calves and poultry. But youth was on her side and she soon learnt
to adapt herself to her new life. Soon after six in the morning she
would mount with Parfitt to the upper room and spin the wool, which he
would then weave into cloth. The work was hard, and some of the
processes of cleaning the wool were repulsive to her nature at first,
but in time she accustomed herself to this as to so much else. It