Mrs. Hale might possibly require. His
presence, after the way he had spoken—his
bringing before her the doom which she was
vainly trying to persuade herself might yet
be averted from her mother—all conspired to
set Margaret's teeth on edge as she looked at
him, and listened to him. What business
had he to be the only person, except Dr.
Donaldson and Dixon, admitted to the awful
secret which she held shut up in the most
dark and sacred recess of her heart—not
daring to look at it, unless she invoked
heavenly strength to bear the sight—that
some day soon she should cry aloud for her
mother, and no answer would come out of the
blank, dumb darkness? Yet he knew all.
She saw it in his pitying eyes. She heard it
in his grave and tremulous voice. How
reconcile those eyes, that voice, with the hard,
reasoning, dry, merciless way in which he laid
down axioms of trade, and serenely followed
them out to their full consequences? The
discord jarred upon her inexpressibly. The more
because of the gathering woe of which she heard
from Bessy. To be sure, Nicholas Higgins,
the father, spoke differently. He had been
appointed a committee-man, and said that he
knew secrets of which the exoteric knew
nothing. He said this more expressly and
particularly on the very day before Mrs.
Thornton's dinner party, when Margaret,
going in to speak to Bessy, found him arguing
the point with Boucher, the neighbour of
whom she had frequently heard mention, as
by turns exciting Higgins's compassion as
an unskilful workman with a large family
depending upon him for support, and at other
times enraging his more energetic and
sanguine neighbour by his want of what the
latter called spirits. It was very evident that
Higgins was in a passion when Margaret
entered. Boucher stood with both hands on
the rather high mantelpiece, swaying himself
a little on the support his arms, thus placed,
gave him, and looking wildly into the fire,
with a kind of despair that irritated Higgins,
even while it went to his heart. Bessy was
rocking herself violently backwards and
forwards as was her wont (Margaret knew by
this time), when she was agitated. Her
sister Mary was tying on her bonnet (in
great clumsy bows, as suited her great
clumsy fingers), to go to her fustian-cutting,
blubbering out loud the while, and evidently
longing to be away from a scene that
distressed her.

Margaret came in upon this scene. She
stood for a moment at the door then, her
finger on her lips, she stole to a seat on the
squab near Bessy. Nicholas saw her come in,
and greeted her with a gruff but not unfriendly
nod. Mary hurried out of the house, catching
gladly at the open door, and crying out aloud
when she got away from her father's presence.
It was only John Boucher that took no notice
whatever who came in and who went out.

"It's no use Higgins. Hoo cannot live
long a'this'n. Hoo's just sinking away—not
for want o' meat hersel' but because hoo
cannot stand th' sight o' the little ones
clemming. Ay, clemming! Five shilling a week
may do well enough for thee, wi' but two mouths
to fill, and one on 'em a wench who can welly
earn her own meat. But it's clemming
to us. An' I tell thee plain—if hoo dies, as
I'm 'feared hoo will afore we've getten th'
five per cent, I'll fling th' money back i' th'
masters' face, and say, ' Be domned to yo;
be domned to th' whole cruel world o' yo;
that could na leave me the best wife thai
ever bore childer to a man! ' An' look thee,
lad, I'll hate thee, and th' whole pack o' th'
Union. Ay, an' chase yo through heaven wi'
my hatred,—I will, lad! I will,—if yo're
leading me astray i' this matter. Thou saidst,
Nicholas, on Wednesday sennight—and it's
now Tuesday i' th' second week—that afore
a fortnight we'd ha' the masters coming
a-begging to us to take back our work, at our
own wage,—and time's nearly up,—and
there's our lile Jack lying a-bed, too weak to
cry, but just every now and then sobbing up
his heart for want o' food, our lile Jack, I
tell thee, lad! Hoo's never looked up sin' he
were born, and hoo loves him as if he were
her very life,—as he is,—for I reckon he'll
ha' cost me that precious price, our lile
Jack, who wakened me each morn wi' putting
his sweet little lips to my great rough fou'
face, a-seeking a smooth place to kiss, an'
he lies clemming." Here the deep sobs
choked the poor man, and Nicholas looked
up, with eyes brimful of tears to Margaret,
before he could gain courage to speak.

"Hou'd up, man. Thy lile Jack shall na'
clem. I ha' got brass, and we'll go buy the
chap a sup o' milk an' a good four-pounder
this very minute. What's mine's thine, sure
enough, i' thou'st i'want. Only dunnot lose
heart, man! " continued he, as he fumbled in
a teapot for what money he had. " I lay yo
my heart and soul we'll win for a' this: it's
hut bearing on one more week, and yo just
see th' way th' masters will come round,
praying on us to come bade to our mills. An'
th' Union,—that's to say, I—will take care
yo've enough for th' childer and the missus.
So dunnot turn faint-heart, and go to th'
tyrants a-seeking work."

The man turned round at these words,—
turned round a face so white, and gaunt, and
tear-furrowed, and hopeless, that its very
calm forced Margaret to weep.

"Yo know well that a worser tyrant than
e'er th' masters were says, 'Clem to death,
and see 'em a' clem to death, ere yo dare go
again th' Union.' Yo know it well, Nicholas
for a' yo're one on 'em. Yo may be kind
hearts, each separate; but once banded
together, yo' ve no more pity for a man than a
wild hunger-maddened wolf.''

Nicliolas had his hand on the lock of the
door—he stopped, and turned round on
Boucher, close following: