her, though she's broken my heart--she has, Will." She could not go on
for a minute or two for the choking sobs. "Thou dost not know that, or
thou wouldst not say she could be dead--for God is very merciful, Will;
He is: He is much more pitiful than man. I could never ha' spoken to thy
father as I did to Him--and yet thy father forgave her at last. The last
words he said were that he forgave her. Thou'lt not be harder than thy
father, Will? Do not try and hinder me going to seek her, for it's no
use."

Will sat very still for a long time before he spoke. At last he said,
"I'll not hinder you. I think she's dead, but that's no matter."

"She's not dead," said her mother, with low earnestness. Will took no
notice of the interruption.

"We will all go to Manchester for a twelvemonth, and let the farm to Tom
Higginbotham. I'll get blacksmith's work; and Tom can have good
schooling for awhile, which he's always craving for. At the end of the
year you'll come back, mother, and give over fretting for Lizzie, and
think with me that she is dead--and, to my mind, that would be more
comfort than to think of her living;" he dropped his voice as he spoke
these last words. She shook her head but made no answer. He asked
again--"Will you, mother, agree to this?"

"I'll agree to it a-this-ns," said she. "If I hear and see nought of her
for a twelvemonth, me being in Manchester looking out, I'll just ha'
broken my heart fairly before the year's ended, and then I shall know
neither love nor sorrow for her any more, when I'm at rest in my grave.
I'll agree to that, Will."