cheek showed his sympathy. "Poor lass, poor lass" was his frequent
comment 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