was so ill—for many reasons," said Margaret,
colouring.

"Yo'd m'appen think I went beyond my
place in sending Mary for yo. But the
wranglin' and the loud voices had just torn
me to pieces, and I thought when father left,
oh! if I could just hear her voice, reading
me some words o' peace and promise, I could
die away into the silence and rest o' God,
just as a babby is hushed up to sleep by its
mother's lullaby."

"Shall I read you a chapter, now?"

"Aye, do! M'appen I shan't listen to
th' sense, at first; it will seem far away—but
when yo come to words I like—to the
comforting texts—it will seem close in my ear,
and going through me, as it were."

Margaret began. Bessy tossed to and fro.
If by an effort she attended for a moment, it
seemed as though she were convulsed into
double restlessness the next. At last, she
burst out: "Don't go on reading. It's no
use. I'm blaspheming all the time in my
mind, wi' thinking angrily on what canna be
helped. Yo'd hear of th' riot, m'appen,
yesterday at Marlborough Mills? Thornton's
factory, yo know."

"Your father was not there, was he?"
said Margaret, colouring deep.

"Not he. He'd ha' given his right hand
if it had never come to pass. It's that that's
fretting me. He's fairly knocked down in
his mind by it. It's no use telling him fools
will always break out o' bounds. Yo never
saw a man so down-hearted as he is."

"But, why?" asked Margaret. "I don't
understand."

"Why, yo see, he's a committee-man on
this special strike. Th' Union appointed him
because, though I say it as should not say it,
he's reckoned a deep chap, and true to th'
back-bone. And he and t'other committee-men
laid their plans. They were to hou'd
together through thick and thin; what the
major part thought, t'others were to think,
whether they would or no. And above all
there was to be no going again the law of the
land. Folk would go with them if they saw
them striving and starving wi' dumb patience;
but if there was once any noise o' fighting
and struggling—even wi' knobsticks—all was
up, as they knew by th' experience of many,
and many a time before. They would try and
get speech o' th' knob-sticks, and coax 'em,
and reason wi' 'em, and m'appen warn 'em
off—but whatever came, Committee charged
all members o' th' Union to lie down and die,
if need were, without striking a blow; and
then they reckoned they were sure o' carrying
th' public with them. And beside all
that, Committee knew they were right in
their demand, and they did not want to have
right all mixed up wi' wrong, till folk can't
separate it, no more nor I can th' physic-powder
from th' jelly yo gave me to mix it
in; jelly is much the biggest, but powder
tastes it all through. Well, I've told yo at
length about this'n, but I'm tired out. Yo
just think for yo'rsel what it mun be for
father to have a' his work undone, and by
such a fool as Boucher, who must needs go
right again the orders of Committee,
and ruin th' strike, just as bad as if he
meant to be a Judas. Eh! but father giv'd
it him last night! He went so far as to say
he'd go and tell police where they might find
th' ringleader o' th' riot; he'd give him up
to th' mill-owners to do what they would wi'
him. He'd show the world that th' real
leaders o' th' strike were not such as Boucher,
but steady thoughtful men; good hands, and
good citizens, who were friendly to law and
judgment, and would uphold order; who
only wanted their right wage, and would
not work, even though they starved, till
they got them; but who would ne'er
injure property or life. For," dropping
her voice, "they do say that Boucher
threw a stone at Thornton's sister, that welly
killed her."

"That's not true," said Margaret. "It
was not Boucher that threw the stone"—she
went first red, then white.

"Yo'd be there then, were yo?" asked
Bessy languidly: for indeed, she had spoken
with many pauses, as if speech was unusually
difficult to her.

"Yes. Never mind. Go on. Only it was
not Boucher that threw the stone. But what
did he answer to your father?"

"He did na' speak words. He were all in
such a tremble wi' spent passion, I could na'
bear to look at him. I heard his breath coming
quick, and at one time I thought he were
sobbing. But when father said he'd give him
up to police, he gave a great cry, and struck
father on th' face wi' his closed fist, and he
off like lightning. Father were stunned wi'
the blow at first, for all Boucher were weak
wi' passion and wi' clemming. He sat down
a bit, and put his hand afore his eyes; and
then made for th' door. I dunno' where I
got strength, but I threw mysel' off th' settle
and clung to him. 'Father, father!' said I.
'Thoul't never go peach on that poor clemmed
man. I'll never leave go on thee, till
thou sayst thou wunnot.' 'Dunnot be a fool,'
says he, 'words come readier than deeds to
most men. I never thought o' telling th'
police on him; though by G—, he deserves
it, and I should na' ha' minded if some one
else had done the dirty work, and got him
clapped up. But, now he has strucken
me, I could do it less nor ever, for it
would be getting other men to take up
my quarrel. But if ever he gets well
o'er this clemming, and is in good
condition, he and I will have an up and down
fight, purring an' a', and I'll see what I can
do for him.' And so father shook me off,—
for indeed, I was low and faint enough, and
his face was all clay white, where it weren't
bloody, and turned me sick to look at. And
I know not if I slept or waked, or were in a