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 was
easy for her gentle nature to win the hearts of the three children; she
quickly learnt the duties of a mother, nursed them in their childish
ailments, and when the loom was still, joined with them in their games.
Six months Tom Parfitt waited to see whether Learoyd would make any
attempt to recover the stepdaughter whom he had wronged, and then, as
the farmer made no move, he quietly married Mary Whittaker at the
Primitive Methodist Chapel.


II