often and often, we went poaching; and many
a hare and pheasant have I rolled up in clay,
and roasted in the embers of the kiln. Then,
as followed to reason, I was drowsy next day,
over my work; but father had no mercy on
me for sleeping, for all he knew the cause of
it, but kicked me where I lay, a heavy lump
on the factory-floor, and cursed and swore at
me till I got up for very fear, and to my
winding again. But when his back was
turned I paid him off with heavier curses
than he had given me, and longed to be a man
that I might be revenged on him. The words
I then spoke I would not now dare to repeat;
and worse than hating words, a hating heart
went with them. I forget the time when I
did not know how to hate. When I first came
to read and learnt about Ishmael, I thought I
must be of his doomed race, for my hand was
against every man, and every man's against
me. But I was seventeen or more before
I cared for my book enough to learn to
read.

After the row of works was finished, father
took one, and set up for himself, in letting
lodgings. I can't say much for the furnishing;
but there was plenty of straw, and we
kept up good fires; and there is a set of
people who value warmth above everything.
The worst lot about the place lodged with us.
We used to have a supper in the middle
of the night; there was game enough, or if
there was not game, there was poultry to be
had for the stealing. By day we all made a
show of working in the factory. By night we
feasted and drank.

Now this web of my life was black enough
and coarse enough; but by and by, a little
golden filmy thread began to be woven in; the
dawn of God's mercy was at hand.

One blowy October morning, as I sauntered
lazily along to the mill, I came to the little
wooden bridge over a brook that falls into the
Bribble. On the plank there stood a child,
balancing the pitcher on her head, with which
she had been to fetch water. She was so light
on her feet that, had it not been for the weight
of the pitcher, I almost believe the wind would
have taken her up, and wafted her away as it
carries off a blow-ball in seed-time; her blue
cotton dress was blown before her, as if she
were spreading her wings for a flight; she
turned her face round, as if to ask me for
something, but when she saw who it was she
hesitated, for I had a bad name in the village,
and I doubt not she had been warned against
me. But her heart was too innocent to be
distrustful; so she said to me timidly,
" Please, John Middleton, will you carry
me this heavy jug just over the bridge?"

It was the very first time I had ever been
spoken to gently. I was ordered here and
there by my father and his rough companions;
I was abused and cursed by them if I failed in
doing what they wished; if I succeeded, there
came no expression of thanks or gratitude.
I was informed of facts necessary for me to
know. But the gentle words of request or
entreaty were afore-time unknown to me,
and now their tones fell on my ear soft and
sweet as a distant peal of bells. I wished
that I knew how to speak properly in reply;
but though we were of the same standing as
regarded worldly circumstances, there was
some mighty difference between us, which
made me unable to speak in her language of
soft words and modest entreaty. There was
nothing for me but to take up the pitcher in
a kind of gruff, shy silence, and carry it over
the bridge as she had asked me. When I
gave it her back again, she thanked me and
tripped away, leaving me, word-less, gazing
after her like an awkward lout as I was. I
knew well enough who she was. She was
grandchild to Eleanor Hadfield, an aged
woman, who was reputed as a witch by my
father and his set, for no other reason, that I
can make out, than her scorn, dignity, and
fearlessness of rancour. It was true we often
met her in the grey dawn of the morning
when we returned from poaching, and my
father used to curse her, under his breath,
for a witch, such as were burnt, long ago, on
Pendle Hill top; but I had heard that
Eleanor was a skilful sick nurse, and ever
ready to give her services to those who were
ill; and I believe that she had been sitting
up through the night (the night that we had
been spending under the wild heavens, in
deeds as wild), with those who were appointed
to die. Nelly was her orphan granddaughter;
her little hand-maiden; her treasure; her
one ewe lamb. Many and many a day have
I watched by the brook-side, hoping that
some happy gust of wind, coming with opportune
bluster down the hollow of the dale,
might make me necessary once more to her.
I longed to hear her speak to me again. I
said the words she had used to myself, trying
to catch her tone; but the chance never
came again. I do not know that she ever
knew how I watched for her there. I found
out that she went to school, and nothing
would serve me but that I must go too. My
father scoffed at me; I did not care. I knew
nought of what reading was, nor that it was
likely that I should be laughed at; I, a great
hulking lad of seventeen or upwards, for
going to learn my A, B, C, in the midst of a
crowd of little ones. I stood just this way
in my mind. Nelly was at school; it was
the best place for seeing her, and hearing her
voice again. Therefore I would go too. My
father talked, and swore, and threatened, but
I stood to it. He said I should leave school,
weary of it in a month. I swore a deeper
oath than I like to remember, that I would
stay a year, and come out a reader and a
writer. My father hated the notion of folks
learning to read, and said it took all the
spirit out of them; besides, he thought he
had a right to every penny of my wages, and
though, when he was in good humour, he
might have given me many a jug of ale, he