didst thou not tell me afore, thou foolish
wench?"

She did not speak for a while, and then so
low that only Margaret heard her:

"I reckon, he'll want a' the comfort he can
get out o' either pipe or drink afore he's done."

Her father went out of doors, evidently to
finish his pipe.

Bessy said passionately,

"Now am not I a fool,—am not I, Miss?—
there, I knew I ought for to keep father at
home, and away fro' the folk that are always
ready for to tempt a man in time o' strike to
go drink,—and there my tongue must needs
quarrel with this pipe o' his'n,—and he'll
go off, I know he will,—as often as he wants
to smoke—and nobody knows where it'll
end.  I wish I'd letten myself be choked
first."

"But does your father drink?" asked
Margaret.

"No—not to say drink," replied she, still
in the same wild excited tone.  "But what
win ye have?  There are days wi' you, as wi'
other folk, I suppose, when yo get up and go
through th' hours, just longing for a bit of a
change—a bit of a fillip, as it were.  I know
I ha' gone and bought a four-pounder out o'
another baker's shop to common on such
days, just because I sickened at the thought
of going on for ever wi' the same sight in my
eyes, and the same sound in my ears, and the
same taste i' my mouth, and the same thought
(or no thought, for that matter) in my head,
day after day, for ever.  I've longed for to be
a man to go spreeing, even if it were only a
tramp to some new place in search o' work.
And father—all men—have it stronger in 'em
than me to get tired o' sameness and work
for ever.  And what is 'em to do?  It's little
blame to them if they do go into th' gin-shop
for to make their blood flow quicker, and
more lively, and see things they never see at
no other time—pictures, and looking-glass,
and such like.  But father never was a
drunkard, though maybe, he's got worse for
drink, now and then.  Only yo see," and
now her voice took a mournful, pleading tone,
"at times o' strike there's much to knock a
man down, for all they start so hopefully;
and where's the comfort to come fro'?  He'll
get angry and mad—they all do—and then
they get tired out wi' being angry and mad,
and maybe ha' done things in their passion
they'd be glad to forget.  Bless yo'r sweet
pitiful face! but yo dunnot know what a
strike is yet."

"Come, Bessy," said Margaret, " I won't
say you're exaggerating, because I don't
know enough about it; but, perhaps, as
you're not well, you're only looking on one
side, and there is another and a brighter to
be looked to."

"It's all well enough for yo to say so, who
have lived in pleasant green places all your
life long, and never known want or care, or
wickedness either, for that matter."

"Take care," said Margaret, her cheek
flushing, and her eye lightening, "how you
judge, Bessy.  I shall go home to my mother,
who is so ill—so ill, Bessy, that there's no
outlet but death for her out of the prison of
her great suffering; and yet I must speak
cheerfully to my father, who has no notion of
her real state, and to whom the knowledge
must come gradually.  The only person—the
only one who could sympathise with me and
help me—whose presence could comfort my
mother more than any other earthly thing—
is falsely accused—would run the risk of
death if he came to see his dying mother.
This I tell you—only you, Bessy.  You must
not mention it.  No other person in Milton
—hardly any other person in England knows.
Have I not care?  Do I not know anxiety,
though I go about well-dressed, and have food
enough?  Oh, Bessy, God is just, and our
lots are well portioned out by Him, although
none but He knows the bitterness of our
souls."

"I ask your pardon," replied Bessy,
humbly.  "Sometimes, when I've thought
o' my life, and the little pleasure I've
had in it, I've believed that maybe I was
one of those doomed to die by the falling of a
star from heaven: 'And the name of the star
is called wormwood; and the third part of
the waters became wormwood; and men
died of the waters, because they were mad
bitter.'  One can bear pain and sorrow better
if one thinks it has been prophesied long
before for one: somehow, then it seems as if
my pain was needed for the fulfilment;
otherways it seems all sent for nothing."

"Nay, Bessy—think!" said Margaret.
"God does not willingly afflict.  Don't dwell
so much on the prophecies, but read the
clearer parts of the Bible."

"I dare say it would be wiser; but where
would I hear such grand words of promise—
hear tell o' anything so far different fro' this
dreary world, and this town above a', as in
Revelations?  Many's the time I have
repeated the verses in the seventh chapter to
myself, just for the sound. It's as good as
an organ, and as different from every day,
too.  No, I cannot give up Revelations.  It
gives me more comfort than any other book
i' the Bible."

"Let me come and read you some of my
favourite chapters."

"Ay," said she, greedily, "come.  Father
will maybe hear yo.  He's deaved wi' my
talking; he says its all nought to do with the
things o' to-day, and that's his business."

"Where is your sister?"

"Gone fustian-cutting.  I were loath to
let her go; but somehow we must live; and
th' Union can't afford us much."

"Now I must go.  You have done me
good, Bessy."

"I done you good!"

"Yes.  I came here very sad, and rather
too apt to think my own cause for grief was