"So help me God! man alive—if I think
not I'm doing best for thee, and for all on us.
If I'm going wrong where I think I'm going
right, it's their sin who ha' left me where I
am, in my ignorance. I ha' thought till my
brains ached, Beli' me, John, I have. An'
I say again, there's no help for us but having
faith i' th' Union. They'll win the day, see
if they dunnot!"

Not one word had Margaret or Bessy
spoken. They had hardly uttered the sighing
that the eyes of each called to the other to
bring up from the depths of her heart. At
last Bessy said,

"I never thought to hear father call on
God again. But yo heard him say " So help
me God!"

'' Yes!" said Margaret. " Let me bring
you what money I can spare,—let me bring
you a little food for that poor man's children.
Don't let them know it comes from any one
but your father. It will be but little."

Bessy lay back without taking any notice
of what Margaret said. She did not cry—
she only quivered up her breath.

"My heart's drained dry o' tears," she said.
"Boucher's been in, these days past, a telling
me of his fears and his troubles. He's but a
weak kind o' chap, I know, but he's a man
for a' that; and tho' I have been angry many
a time afore now wi' him an' his wife, as
knew no more nor him how to manage, yet,
yo see, all folk is not wise, yet God lets 'em
live ay, an' gives 'em some one to love, and
be loved by, just as good as Solomon. An', if
sorrow comes to them they love, it hurts 'em
as sore as e'er it did Solomon. I can't make
it out. Perhaps it's as well such a one as
Boucher has th' Union to see after him. But
I'd just like for to see th' men as make th'
Union, and put 'em one by one face to face
wi' Boucher. I reckon if they heard him
they'd tell him (if I cotched 'em one by one),
he might go back and get what he could for
his work, even if it weren't so much as they
ordered."

Margaret sat utterly silent. How was she
ever to go away into comfort and forget that
man's voice, with the tone of unutterable
agony telling more by far than his words, of
what he had to suffer? She took out her
purse; she had not much in it of what she
could call her own, but what she had she put
into Bessy's hand without speaking.

"Thank yo. There's many on 'em gets no
more, and is not so bad off,—leastways does
not show it as he does. But father won't let
'em want, now he knows, yo see, Boucher's
been pulled down wi' his childer,—and her
being so cranky, and a' they could pawn has
gone this last twelvemonth. Yo're not to
think we'd ha' letten 'em clem, for all we're a
bit pressed oursel'; if neighbours does not
see after neighbours, I dunno who will."
Bessy seemed almost afraid lest Margaret
should think they had not the will, and, to a
certain degree, the power of helping one
whom she evidently regarded as having a
claim upon them. " Besides," she went on,
"father is sure and positive the masters must
give in within these next few days—that they
canna hould on much longer. But I thank
yo all the same,—I thank yo for mysel', as
much as for Boucher, for it just makes my
heart warm to yo more and more."

Bessy seemed much quieter to-day, but
fearfully languid and exhausted. As she
finished speaking, she looked so faint aud
weary that Margaret became alarmed.

"It's nout," said Bessy. "It's not death
yet. I had a fearfu' night wi' dreams—or
somewhat like dreams, for I were wide awake,
—and I'm all in a swounding daze to-day,—
only yon poor chap made me alive again.
No! it's not death yet, but death is not far
off. Ay. Cover me up, and I'll may be
sleep if th' cough will let me. Good night—
good afternoon, m'appen I should say—but th'
light is dim an' misty to-day."

ON THE YORKSHIRE MOORS.

We set off along a pretty rustic lane
besprinkled with honeysuckle, and with blue
"mute curfew bells," leaving open way
sometimes through hedges of trailing briar
into a waving cornfield, out of which the
epicure in that line might pluck ears and
eat. We were on the high road to one of
the most extensive of the Yorkshire moors.

A dead halt. "Where are the donkeys
for the ladies?" A scout was instantly
dispatched to the hill-top, and, after often
inquiring, from "sister Ann" for the time
being, whether she saw anything coming,
a cloud of dust proclaimed the advance of
our cavalry. So we mounted with a
bashibazouk feeling at our hearts, however little
of it there might be in the steps of our steeds.
An artist could have chosen many a less
interesting group than that one made by
Fanny, Conqueror, Jenny, and Betsy, toiling
up the heathery hill-side; with their crimson
shawled and neat-figured riders, and their
couple of outriders, with whom they had at
least one common thought. It was a first
day on the moors to them all.

"What mean ye, donkeys, by this sudden
halt? Do ye scent game, or are your gentle
ears stunned by that loud report?" From
the hill-side it comes. It came indeed from
the gun of our generous host, Mr. Aibee,
whose gamekeeper Sam was on the ground
awaiting us.

"What sport to-day, Sam?"

Happy the man who had set eyes on Sam!
As Mr. Aibee accosted him, he rose up to his
full height, six feet four out of his shoes.
When we first saw him, he was setting,
dogwise, his eager face bent forwards, listening
for game; but, as he crouched with his hands
resting on his knees, and his neck stretched
out, he looked more like some antediluvian
bird than anything four-footed.