Chapter V

HAPPY'S the wooing that's not long a-doing, and Jabez Tinker, his mind resolved, was not the man to let the grass grow under his feet. Martha was not the one to insist on all the formularies of a protracted siege; she surrendered the citadel of her heart at the first blast of trumpet. She only insisted that the wedding should be a quiet one. As this jumped entirely with her lover's notions she had her own way, though Ephraim protested.

"We don't kill a pig every day, and blow th' expense. If aw pay th' piper surely I ought to chuse th' tune."

But he was not suffered to choose the tune, though none questioned that he paid the piper, and paid him handsomely. Exactly how many thousands of pounds made over his humble counter went to swell Mr. Tinker's balance at the Bank no one but he and his son-in-law and the bankers knew, and is no concern of ours.

Jabez took his bride to London for the honeymoon. The wool-sales were on at the time, so that the manufacturer was able to combine business with pleasure, and to avoid that exclusive devotion to his wife which even more ardent husbands are said to have found somewhat irksome. But he took care that Martha should see some of the sights of London--the Houses of Parliament, the Abbey, St. Paul's, and the Tower. Theatres were, of course, not to be thought of, but on one never-to-be-forgotten Saturday, the two went up the river to Hampton Court. Then for the first time Martha realized that the world is very beautiful and often amid the bleak hills and stone walls and hideous mills of her mountain home, her thoughts would dwell upon the green fields and rich hedges and rustling, swaying, leafy branches and deep flowing waters of the fair valley of the Thames. The portraits at Hampton Court shocked her, and she hurried through the rooms with crimson face.

But her heart was very light and glad as she entered her own home at Wilberlee. The ancient homestead of the Tinkers was hard by the mill. It was a long two-storied building of rude ashlar, now dark with age. There was a sitting room or company room, low and gloomy even on a bright day, for the windows were overhung by the ivy that covered the house front. The furniture was massive, dark mahogany. There were but few pictures or ornaments in the room, the pictures mostly oil-paintings of dead and gone Tinkers in stiff stocks, precise coats, with thick watch-chains and seals hanging from the fob; the women with smooth plaited hair, long stomachers, and severe looks. By the looking-glass over the mantel-piece were deep-edged mourning cards, in ornate frames, recording the deaths of defunct ancestors, with pious texts and verses expressive of a touching confidence in the departed's eternal welfare.

The bedrooms of the upper story were furnished in the same enduring fashion, were even gloomier than the dismal sitting room, the vast four-posted mahogany bedsteads with their voluminous drapery casting heavy shadows, and as the narrow windows were never opened, the chamber air, in summer time, was heavy laden with the blended smell of feathers, flocks, and lavender. It is marvellous what a dread our forefathers, who lived so much in the open, had of fresh air and thorough ventilation in the sleeping rooms of their homes.

But, after all, the kitchen or living room was the main thing. A roaring fire in winter time, walls yellow-washed, floor ochred and sanded, dark rafters overhead, flitches, hams, ropes of onions, dried bushes of sage and parsley, burnished tins that caught and reflected rays of fire and gleam of sun, a long table, its top white as soap and scrubbing brush can make the close-grained sycamore, long shelves laden with Delf and ancient crockery--ah! It was a paradise for a good housewife.

And a good housewife Martha proved to be. There was not a cleaner house in all that country side. She had kept on Betty for Dorothy's sake, and there was besides, Peggy, scullery maid and general help. Betty and Peggy would very much have preferred that their mistress had been neither so keen of eye nor sharp of tongue--for the Mistress who, as callers said, could not say boh to a goose, could talk thirteen to the dozen, so Betty averred, anent a grease spot or an iron-mould.

Martha's lot, it may be said, if not an ideal, was now a serene one. Had she but had child of her own, she thought no happier woman could have been found in the wide West Riding. But in this Fate was unkind, and the withholding of the crowning blessing of a woman's life, to hold her own babe to her breast, was all the harsher measure, that Martha knew her husband in his secret heart brooded over their long disappointment and nursed it as a grievance. Poor Martha! How many prayers, how many vows, were thine for this boon so freely granted to your husband's poorest workman!

It was in vain that Martha tried to stay her heart's longings by filling a mother's place to the little niece left by that graceless Richard. All that duty dictated Martha did; did ungrudgingly conscientiously. But there is one thing in this world that is absolutely beyond the human will: it is the human heart. Love knows no reason, and is uninfluenced by the sternest logic. It is like the wind that bloweth where it listeth. School herself as Martha would she came, in time, to have a smouldering jealousy of little Dorothy, and the child's quick perception taught it to shun the eye, and soon the company, of her aunt, and turn for comfort to buxom, homely Betty.

It is a Sunday afternoon in the Summer of the year '45--a glorious summer's afternoon. The garden at Wilberlee, stretching below the parlour window right down to the river-side--no great stretch, indeed--is ablaze with colour. The sky overhead is of rich deep blue, flecked with trailing wisps of feathery cloudlets. The lark sings high in mid ether. From the meadows round about comes the scent of the hay, and the garden gives forth its fragrance of musk and rose. In a low basket-chair, placed beneath the shades of an umbrageous chestnut tree, Mrs. Tinker sits, stiff, erect, unyielding. She is dressed in rich dark silk, and the lace of collar and cuffs have come from the skilled fingers of the nuns of Belgian convents. A religious periodical, the "Baptist Magazine," lies unheeded on her lap, for Martha is watching, with wistful eyes, the graceful movements of a young girl, who flits from flower to flower, and bends occasionally to snip a bloom or leaf.

"Why are you getting flowers of a Sunday: Dorothy? You know your uncle would not like it. I'm sure we don't want any more in the house--the parlour smells almost sickly with them--besides, it's Sunday."

"I don't want them for the parlour, aunt Martha. They are for poor Lucy Garside."

"Who's Lucy Garside?"

"Why, aunt, how can you forget? She worked in uncle's mill till she had to leave. It is something the matter with her legs and spine. Don't you mind that pretty, rosy Lucy Garside, that used to be in your class at the Sunday School? But she isn't rosy now--oh! so pale and thin, and has to lie all day on the settle."

"You mean the sofa, child."

"No, aunt, the kitchen settle I mean, they have no sofa; but they try to make it comfortable for her with shawls and things; and her mother is making a list hearth-rug for her to lie on, and then, may-be, she'll be easier--and she loves flowers. You will let me take them, aunt Martha, won't you?"

"Well, they're gathered now, and it's no use wasting them. But, in future, you must ask my leave before you cut more. And I don't quite know how your uncle would like you going trashing about among those low mill-girls."

"But, aunt"--and here Dorothy lowered her voice and glanced timorously at the opened window of the parlour--"but, aunt Martha, they say--in the village, I mean, not Lucy's mother--that Lucy's hurt her spine and crooked her legs working too long in the mill--hours and hours, and hours, they say, all the day and nearly all the night, and sleeping under the machines because she was too tired to go home to bed; and that, and not enough to eat, the doctor says, has made poor Lucy a cripple for life."

"Then Dr. Wimpenny ought to be whipped for saying such things, and I won't have you listening to these tittle-tattling stories. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, to let folks tell you lies about your uncle's mill. Folk ought to be glad they can send their children to work, to earn their own living. How would they live if they couldn't? But there's no gratitude left in the world--that's a fact. But there's your uncle finished his nap, and you'd best be off; and don't let me hear any more of your silly tales about things you don't understand."

It was a very prim and demure maiden that walked sedately from the side-gate of the house at Wilberlee, a large bunch or posy of flowers grasped in one little hand, a basket in the other. Dorothy had coaxed sundry delicacies from the not reluctant Betty--a loaf of bread, some slices of meat, a pot of jam, a glass of calves'-foot jelly, and a small packet of tea.

"Bless her bonny face," remarked Betty to Peggy, the underling, "it isn't i' my heart to refuse her owt. But it's to be hoped th' missus 'll never find it out."

"Saints preserve us," devoutly ejaculated Peggy, who was shrewdly suspected to have Milesian blood in her veins.

"Isn't she a pictur'?" said Betty, as her eyes followed her little mistress until the gate shut her from admiring gaze.

"'Deed, then, she is--an' as good as she's purty," assented Peggy.

"It's Mr. Richard's own child, she is," went on Betty, reminiscently--"th' same dancin' e'en, an' gladsome look, an' merry smile; and yet, sometimes, when she's thoughtful-like, an' dreamy, you'd think she wer' her own mother, as I could fancy her as a lass,"--and Betty heaved a very deep sigh, from a very capacious bosom.

And, indeed, Dorothy was a picture to gladden the eyes of man. The small coal-scuttle bonnet of Leghorn straw, with its drab strings, could not hide the pure oval of the face, nor its shade conceal its rich, warm complexion. The auburn ringlets, not corkscrewed to mechanic stiffness, but loosely curling, fell in clusters about her shoulders; and the child moved with an instinctive grace. Once out of the view of the garden and the house windows her pace quickened, she began to skip along joyously, her bonnet thrown back from the head, and her little feet, peeping and twinkling from beneath her shortened skirts, beat measure to the snatches of songs, that were not hymnal in their wording or their melody. As she passed the cottage doors, the good folk--standing by their thresholds to breath the air, or bask in the grateful sun, or while away the sleepy hours of unwonted rest in friendly gossip with "my nabs"--would turn to look upon the sweet and glad young face, and not one but had a hearty word and a friendly greeting for Miss Dorothy.

"Eh! But oo's a bonny wench. A seet ov her 's fair gooid for sore e'en. Oo'll be a bright spot i' some lucky chap's whom some fine day, please the pigs." And Dorothy had a nod, and a smile, too, for everyone; for she knew them all by name, and most of them worked for her uncle, either in the mill, or at their own loom in the long upper chamber of their little cottages.

"Oo's bahn to see poor Lucy Garsed, Ben's lass, aw'll be bun; an' oo's noan empty-handed noather. See th' posy oo's getten; an' mi mouth fair watters when aw think o' what there'll be i'th basket--noan o' th' missus' sendin', aw'll go bail."

"Aye, there'll be summat beside tracks, if Miss Dorothy's had a finger i' th' pie,"--and so the old wives' tongues ran on.

The cottage of Ben Garside was barely furnished, but all was spick and span. Ben was a hand-loom weaver, and, of a week-day, by earliest day, til sunset in the spring and summer-tide, you could have heard the clack of his loom overhead as the nimble shuttle with its trail of weft sped across the warp. But to-day Ben has gone to stretch his legs on the moors, and it is Lucy's mother who bids Dorothy welcome and relieves her of her parcels.

A long oaken settle runs under the deep window of the "house" or living room. The window ledge is full of pots of geranium, fuchsia, musk and rose that turn their petals to bathe in the glorious sunshine that streams with tempered warmth through the thick glazing of the long low window. Poor Lucy lies upon the couch, her cheeks so hollow, her skin so transparent, her brown soft eyes so unnaturally large and her look of patient suffering, and of the resignation of abandoned hope so heart-rending when it is stamped on the face of youth. But the large eyes brighten as Dorothy comes to the couch, and her thin hand, so white and bloodless, rests in loving, lingering caress upon Dorothy's glossy tresses as she stoops over the invalid and leaves a kiss upon the pallid lips.

"Better to-day, I hope, Lucy."

And Lucy, with a suspicious catch in her voice, says:

"Oh! Yes, better to-day, Miss Dorothy, almost well."

Alas! There will be no well for Lucy till that best of all days shall dawn for her, where sickness and suffering enter not, and tears forget to flow.

"See what Aunt Martha has sent you," said Dorothy presently,--may heaven forgive the fib,--"no, not the flowers. I gathered them all myself because I know just what you like best, and now all the afternoon, when I'm gone, you know, you must just do nothing but arrange them in that big glass on the drawers there. And this jam is for you, too, and the calves'-foot jelly to make you strong, you know, and the tea is for you, Mrs. Garside, when you've been washing and feel just like sinking through the ground, as I've heard you say you do."

"And thank the missus kindly, Miss Dorothy, my respects; but whativver's this?" and Mrs. Garside extracted the bread and meat.

"Oh! I'd forgotten them. These are for Ben."

"Eh! But aw'm feart they'll nivver keep till next Sunday i' this welterin' weather. To be sure aw might rub 'em wi' salt, but Ben do want such a power o' ale a'ter salt meat. But we'll see, we'll see. Eh! Miss Dorothy, but it's yo' that thinks o' ivverybody an' thof yo' say it's yor aunt, it's well aw know--but least said, sooinest mended. But sit yo dahn an' aw'll dust that cheer i' hauf a tick-tack--it's fair cappin wheer all th' muck comes fro' this warm weather, fit to fry yo' like a' rasher o' bacon; sit yo' dahn, do, an' throw yo'r hat off an' yo'll read ith Book a bit; not 'at aw held so much religion but Lucy theer likes it an' it's cheap, that's one gooid thing or th' poor folk 'ud get little enew on it."

Mrs. Garside, who, it will be observed, did not allow her power of speech to rust for want of use, paused to draw breath for another effort.

"What shall I read, Lucy?"

"Oh! Just that story about Jesus at the pool of Bethesda. How I wish I could have been there."

Mrs. Garside composed herself to listen, putting on that look of impenetrable stolidity and unreceptiveness that a good many people seem to think most appropriate for a Scripture-reading.

"In these lay a great multitude of impotent folk, of blind, halt, withered, waiting for the moving of the waters.... 'Sir, I have no man, when the water is troubled, to put me into the pool; but while I am coming, another steppeth down before me.'"

"Nah! If that isn't Holmfirth all ovver, my name's not Hannah Garsed" broke in that lady. "Holmfirth all ovver. Aw can see just how it wer'. Th' poor man wer' ligged theer all bi hissen, an' nobbudy to help 'im. Then fust one an' then another comes up an' thruts 'im o' one side. An' if them watters wer' owt like th' Booik says, yo may mak' sure 'at there'd be th' rich folk theer wi' their sarvants, an' lackeys, an' nusses an' lady's maids, to put 'em i'th' watter an' they'd ha' th' pick o' ivverything. An' yar Ben sez 'at if th' heealin' o' th' man wi a infirmary wer' a miracle, it's a bigger miracle 'at someb'dy hadn't bowt that pool up an' med a fortin' out o' it. Not 'at aw hold wi' all yar Ben says, for there's gooid folk amang th' quality, as we'd no need to look further nor Wilberlee," she concluded, with a penitent glance at the table.

"But I've some news for you, Mrs. Garside," interrupted Dorothy, "and I hope it will be good news."

"It'll be summat fresh if it is," murmured the irrepressible dame, "weel, out wi' it."

"You know uncle has been very busy lately, putting in new machinery?"

Mrs. Garside nodded. _That_ did not concern her, except perhaps that it might mean either more or less country-work to the hand-loom weavers. But that would be to try for.

"And he is going to take another apprentice," continued Dorothy. "I heard him tell Aunt Martha so and ask her where she should lodge him. Aunt Martha said she hadn't an idea, anywhere would do for an apprentice. So I managed to catch uncle all by himself, and I said perhaps you would be glad to do for a boy."

"And that's what yo' ca' gooid news, is it, Dorothy? As if aw hadn't enough to do wi' th' house-work and th' cookin', though that's easy enough, God knows, an' me bobbin-windin' to keep Ben agate at th' loom, an' th' little lass theer at might ha' been a help an' a comfort laid o' her back fro' morn to neet an' neet to morn an' all to do for, not but what it's a pleasure to do for yo', my pet, an' it's more aw wish your owd mother could do, an' aw wodn't swap her agen ony lass i' all th' valley; but a noisy lad a rampagin' all abaat th' haase an' whistlin' an' happen stoppin' out o' neets till all hours, an nivver' wipin' his feet except upo' th' fender rails, an' makkin' enough noise to wakken th' deead, an' eitin' enough for two! Not but what th' bit o' brass 'ud be welcome, an' thank yo' kindly. We'll see when th' time comes; its no use meetin' trouble hauf way nor lawpin' afore yo get to th' stee, an' doubtless yo'r aunt 'll be speikin' to me or yar Ben, an' that 'll be time enough, which awm obliged to yo' all th' same, miss, for givin' a thowt o' us an speikin' a gooid word for us, though yo'r aunt knows weel as if aw _did_ ha' a boy aw'd do for 'im as well as here an' theer a one, though aw say it, mebbe, as suldn't."

Who can unravel the tangled skein of life and say, as the foolish say, "This is fate," or as the wise, "This the foreordaining of God, the will and fashioning of the great Designer, from the foundation of the world?" But call it Fate or what you will, certain enough it is that the very day after Dorothy's visit to Dame Garside's cottage, Jabez Tinker mounted his stout cob and rode up the road that leads past the Bilberry Reservoir, past the Isle of Skye and far-famed Bill's o' Jack's, past the grey pile of St. Chad's, and so to the Workhouse On the hill. His horse was taken at the gate by Workhouse Jack and Tom Pinder, and led to the stabling in the rear to have a draught of meal-and-water and a feed of oats. Jack and Tom lingered in the stable admiring the gloss of the horse's coat, running fingers through its mane, smacking its warm flanks with many a "Whooa hup" and "Stan' ovver, lass," examining its hocks and its teeth, and generally doing those knowing things affected by the veriest tyro who would be thought wise in the deep and subtle matter of horseflesh.

But presently came the Workhouse Porter:

"Tom Pinder, th' Master wants you in th' office. No, not you, Jack; you can go into th' potato patch and don't let me catch you here again or you'll know about it."

The porter was a much more dignified man and more important in his own esteem than the master himself, so it is just as well he had not eyes at the back of his head to see that sign made by a certain application of thumb and outspanned fingers which in all times and countries has been deemed significant of contempt unutterable.

Tom followed the Porter wondering to the office. The Master was closeted with a tall, broad-shouldered, sparer, man, with clean shaven face, keen grey eyes, and hair tinged with grey at tee tell-tale temples. He sat by the table, a tankard of ale at his side, and his hand swinging his riding whip idly to and fro.

"This is the lad, then, Mr. Redfearn wrote to me about? He seems a likely lad enough, but somewhat overgrown. How old are you boy?"

"Rising fifteen, sir."

Mr. Tinker eyed the youth from head to foot and turned him round and round, feeling the muscles of his arm and the thews of his thigh and calf as though he was appraising a horse at the Cattle Fair.

"Sound in wind and limb, I should judge," he concluded, "but his age is against him. A lad should go into a mill young, Master, before his bones are set and his fingers stiff, if he's to be any good. I'm not in your Union or I would have seen to this. The Guardians have no business to keep a big lumbering lout of a lad lazying about the House and eating his head off. It's demoralising to the lad and is enough to pauperize a whole neighbourhood. What's his name?"

"Pinder sir, Tom Pinder," answered the Master, and, whilst Tom stared with all his eyes on the stranger, wondering vastly who he might be and what this interview might portend and wondering too if Workhouse Jack would remember to feed his rabbit and find a fresh sod of grass for his lark, the Master made apology for Tom's height and girth.

"You see, Mr. Tinker, Pinder's been kept longer than usual. There's a sort of mystery about him, and both the Chairman and Mr. Black have taken uncommon interest in him. Indeed the Schoolmaster's so wrapt up in him he couldn't have been more if th' lad had been his own son, which I'd almost think he was myself if it wasn't so ridiculous. But there's never no telling, is there, Mr. Tinker? these quiet uns is often as deep an' dark as a pit, bu' we're all human, eh?" And Master winked a wink meant to be a summary of profound knowledge of the universal fallibility of the human race.

But Mr. Tinker was not a man to be winked at or joked with, nor apparently was he disposed to discuss the tempting topic of man's--and woman's--depravity--with a Workhouse Master, the sole audience a Workhouse foundling.

"Pinder,"--he said musingly, strumming meditatively on the table, and somewhat brusquely declining the Master's hospitable offer to have in another jug of October ale, or something shorter if a cordial for the stomach would be more acceptable.--"Pinder--Tom Pinder? it isn't a this country name. There was a Pinder at Marsden, a clothier in a small way--took to drink, banked, and showed his creditors a clean pair of heels; but you wouldn't have a Marsden brat in this Union."

"But he wasn't called after his father," said the Master, somewhat curtly, for if Jabez Tinker could be curt, curt too could the Master be, and any way, he was sovereign there except on Guardian days. "Damme, I can crow on my own dunghill," he thought, "or I'm th' poorest cock ever crowed this side of Stanedge."

"Oh! I forgot, Mr. Redfearn said something about his being a bastard, a chance child--a rambling tale. I didn't mind it, I was thinking about something else. 'Twill be his mother's name?"

"No, nor his mother's," said the Master. "I don't rightly know who he was called after. It had something to do with Mr. Redfearn's shepherd. But it's a long time since, and I forget. But what's the odds? There th' lad is. You can either take him or leave him, it's all a price to me, and I reckon to th' Guardians too."

"When can he come?"

"Next week. There'll be th' papers to make out. Th' overseers will sign th' indentire. Five pounds they've to pay, I think t'was settled."

"Yes, five Pounds; but if I'd known his age and size I'd have stood out for more. But it's too late for haggling you'd send him over this day week. I'll arrange about him. Tell him to bring the cob round, Tom, and so good day to you, Master. Time's money these days, and I've wasted a whole forenoon over this job. Pinder, Pinder, it's a strange name and yet there seems a look i' the lad's eye I've seen before somewhere. My respects to Mr. Redfearn when you see him, and tell him he should be too old a farmer by this to keep his cattle till they're almost too far gone for the market."

The Master smiled the official smile at a Guardian's jest; but it was no very friendly glance that followed the erect form of the Holmfirth manufacturer as he turned his good mare's head over the hills. "Tom's in for a bad time of it, I'm thinking," said the master.

It was Mr. Black who conveyed the lad with a father's love from the Workhouse to Holmfirth. And the lad went with a heart light enough, though on his cheek the tears were wet he had shed at parting from the faithful Jack. He had solemnly made over to the lamenting Workhouse drudge his boyish treasures,--the lark, that obstinately refused to sing, the lop-eared rabbit, and the hedgehog he had rescued from the clogs and sticks of a posse of village urchins--captive not of bow and spear, but of fist and toe. Moll o' Stuarts, too, had been to bid him farewell, and, as a parting gift, had bestowed on him a child's caul.

"Keep that all th' days o' your life; nivver part wi' it, wet or fine. Yo'll allus know th' weather by it, as guid as a glass an' better nor bi a mony on 'em. An' as long as that caul's thine, drowneded bi watter yo' canna be. There's mony a fine spark at sails the seas 'ud be main glad o' that same. Hanged yo' may be, tho' God forbid, but drownded nivver." And in after years, of which the reader shall read in good time, Moll o' Stuarts was able to invoke her prophetic soul, and to attribute to her own prescience the wonderful deliverance this story shall narrate. Moll, too, brought a pair of stout stockings knit by the widow Schofield's own plump hands, and a crown-piece, that the night before had jingled in Tom o' Fairbank's well-filled leathern purse.

Over the hills trudged the Schoolmaster and his ward; the dominie thoughtful, and not a little sorrowful.

"Pray God we've done for the best," was his pious hope, as they reached the low wall of the Church of St. Chad's, and one at least thought of the fair unknown, whose son was setting forth into the untried paths of life, with all the glad, unquestioning undoubting confidence of eager youth. Hard by the Church Inn they turned to the face of the steep ascent of almost unbroken moorland, threaded by a rude and rutty path, strewn with rubble and boulders, torn and wrenched from the crags above by the driving storms and angry raging winds of the rolling years. On the lower face of the hill they passed, here and there, the rude shelter of a moorland cottier, whose cow and pig and poultry gained precarious living in the lean enclosures won from the sweeping stretch of heather and coarse grass or the lowly cottage whence the familiar clack of the hand-loom told of swaying beam and scudding shuttle. Anon they reached the summit; Mr. Black, notwithstanding the help from Tom's sturdy arm, fain to rest upon one of the vast rocks belched forth from the bowels of the earth in some angry vomiting of the prisoned airs, and now, rounded and smooth-worn and dark with the gloom of ages, resting massive on the commanding summit called Pots and Pans.

"Yes, that indeed, is Bill's o' Jack s," panted Mr. Black, in answer to Tom's eager questioning.

"That is where the murder was done, murder most foul. Poor hapless Bill and Tom, I knew them well, a hale and hearty farmer, and his son a strapping gamekeeper. Done to death, whether for gain or revenge, none knew for certain, though it was shrewdly guessed, but nothing was ever proved and for ought is known, the murderers may dwell in our very midst. See yon little window left of the door, 'twas the old man's bedroom. There, in a pool of blood, his lifeless body was found; his son,--his head cleaved by a heavy bill-lay lifeless in the kitchen. It was a little wench, who went betimes for milk, gave the alarm."

"Was it long gone sir?" asked Tom, gazing spellbound at the farmhouse in the valley's dip.

"In '32--the year of the great Reform Bill. You were a bouncing baby then, Tom. But see how thick the bilberries lie snugly in the heather, and how a film settles on the ripened fruit as though the mist of the hills had kissed them with a lingering kiss. Better fill your kerchief, for well I guess they'll be right welcome at Mrs. Garside's, where you must make your home.

"And now, lad, turn your eyes once more upon the old church and towards the fields you know so well. Remember in that valley you were born and bred, and in that valley are those that love you well and who have knit you to their hearts. Yonderwards, in the other valley, is your future home; what trials, what labours there await you, who shall say? but as David said to his _son_, say I to you:

"'Be thou strong and shew thyself a man, and keep the charge of the Lord Thy God, to walk in His ways, to keep His statutes, and His commandments, and His judgments and His testimonies that thou mayest prosper in all that thou doest, and whithersoever thou turnest thyself.' And now, come, lad, 'tis a brave step from here to Holmfirth and the way will be long for me when I come back without thee."