herself.

'Well,' said Mrs. Bower, 'that's one way o' lookin' at it but I
can't see neither as there's much good in believin' what isn't
true.'

'That's to the point, Mrs. Bower,' said Ackroyd with a smile.

There was a footstep in the shop--firm, yet light and quick--then
a girl's face showed itself at the parlour door. It was a face which
atoned for lack of regular features by the bright intelligence and
the warmth of heart that shone in its smile of greeting. A fair
broad forehead lay above well-arched brows; the eyes below were
large and shrewdly observant, with laughter and kindness blent in
their dark depths. The cheeks were warm with health; the lips and
chin were strong, yet marked with refinement; they told of
independence, of fervid instincts; perhaps of a temper a little apt
to be impatient. It was not an imaginative countenance, yet alive
with thought and feeling--all, one felt, ready at the moment's need
--the kind of face which becomes the light and joy of home, the
bliss of children, the unfailing support of a man's courage. Her
hair was cut short and crisped itself above her neck; her hat of
black straw and dark dress were those of a work-girl--poor, yet, in
their lack of adornment, suiting well with the active, helpful
impression which her look produced.

'Here's Mary an' Mr. Hackroyd fallin' out again, Lydia,' said Mrs.
Bower.

'What about now?' Lydia asked, coming in and seating herself. Her