So Mrs. Thornburgh was left gasping, watching the progress of the
lumbering cart along the bit of road leading to the hamlet at the
head of the valley, with so limp and crestfallen an aspect that
even the gaunt and secretly jubilant Sarah was moved to pity.

'Why, missis, we'll do very well. I'll hev some scones in t'oven
in naw time, an' theer's finger biscuits, an' wi' buttered toast
an' sum o' t'best jams, if they don't hev enuf to eat they ought
to.' Then, dropping her voice, she asked with a hurried change of
tone, 'Did ye ask un' hoo his daater is?'

Mrs. Thornburgh started. Her pastoral conscience was smitten. She
opened the gate and waved violently after the cart. John pulled
his horse up, and with a few quick steps she brought herself within
speaking, or rather shouting, distance.

'How's your daughter to-day, John?'

The old man's face peering round the oilcloth hood of the cart was
darkened by a sudden cloud as he caught the words. His stern lips
closed. He muttered something inaudible to Mrs. Thornburgh and
whipped up his horse again. The cart started off, and Mrs. Thornburgh
was left staring into the receding eyes of 'Jim the Noodle,' who,
from his seat on the near shaft, regarded her with a gaze which had
passed from benevolence into a preternatural solemnity.

'He's sparin' ov 'is speach, is John Backhouse,' said Sarah grimly,
as her mistress returned to her. 'Maybe ee's aboot reet. It's a
bad business au' ee'll not mend it wi' taakin.'