A frightened look came into Mary's eyes as she answered: "But that'll be
thy bed."

"Nay," replied the weaver, "it'll be thy bed so lang as thou bides wi'
me. I'll mak up a bed for misen i' t' kitchen on t' lang-settle."

A grateful expression came over the girl's face, but she made no move in
the direction of the inner room. Silence prevailed for some time until
the weaver asked: "Is there owt I can do for thee, or owt that thou's
gotten to tell me, lass? It's been a dree day for thee, to-day; ay, an'
mony a day afore to-day, I reckon."

This reference to the happenings of the morning brought tears to the
girl's eyes, and it was some time before she could summon up courage to
speak.

"Don't mind me," she said at last; "I'll be better to-morn. But he
didn't ought to hae browt shame on me i' t' way he's done. It wasn't my
fault mother left him. I'd allus been a gooid lass to him, choose what
fowks say."

Step by step the weaver led her on to tell him the story of what had led
up to the shameful transaction in the market-place. It was no mere
curiosity that moved him, but a realisation that there could be no peace
of mind for Mary Whittaker until she had found relief by unburdening her
tortured soul. The weaver's gentle ways and tactful bearing were slowly
winning her heart, and, painful though the recital of her past history
was for her, Parfitt knew that it would bring relief. It was a long
story that Mary had to tell. She had little art of narrative, and her
endeavours to shield both her mother and stepfather as far as possible