Be sure, then, we did not loiter in Longroyd Bridge. There was nothing there to tempt us to stay, and Mary was in a greater hurry to be gone than even I. She was very pale. She had had no spirits to talk of since we had heard George was taken, but now she was more down nor ever. Not a word spoke she right up th' moor till we got to th' top and turned round to look on th' town lying at our feet. She was panting for breath, and I drew her to the roadside and made her sit upon the wall. There was nobody about, and the early night of late autumn had closed in. I tried to steal my arm about her waist, tho' Mary was ever coy of suffering any such show of my love. But she put away my arm very gently--"Yo mustn't do that again, Ben. It's all ovver now. We'n had our dream, an' it's been a sweet 'un. But I've had a rude wakening, an' it's all ovver, it's all ovver." And Mary hid her face in her hands and bent over as she sat, and tears trickled from under her hands down upon her lap. I let her be, and she wept silently. Then she sprang to her feet and dried her eyes and tried to smile and would have had me take the road again; but I would not budge, and she had to sit by my side. The road was quiet enough, and what mattered it if all the world saw us? We'd as much right there as anyone. "Now, Mary, tell me, like a sensible lass, what it all means." Mary did not speak to me. I saw she was considering so I did not hurry her. I was getting used to the ways of women. There's nought like loving and courting for teaching a man th' way to handle 'em, tho' they're kittle cattle to shoe at the' best o' times. "There's summat aw hannot told thee, Ben. Happen aw should ha' done." "Aw think aw can guess it." "Tha nivver can." "Is it about Ben Walker?" Mary nodded. "Martha towd me." "Oh!" There was a look passed over Mary's face which I took to mean that Martha would have a piece of Mary's mind first chance that offered. "Well?" I said. "Well, of course, I'd ha' nowt to do wi' him." "Aw should think not," I said, moving a little closer to her. "And at first he thowt aw'd promised George." "That comes fra not knowin' thi own mind." Mary drew further off. "I told him so misen," I said. Mary sprang up as if she'd been shot. "Yo' did?" "Aw did." "Then yo've a deal to answer for, Ben Bamforth. His mother says that's what made him peach on George." "The devil!" I said, and there was silence, and we sat thinking our own thoughts. "It wer' happen my fault," said Mary at last, sitting down again. "Anyway it's no use quarrelling about it." "Nor crying over spilt milk," I said. "But that's not th' worst on it by a long chalk," said Mary. "Well, let's hear it?" "She's a horrid woman, that Mrs. Walker. Just like an owd witch, an' such wicked, wicked eyes, a peerin' at yo' an' a peerin' at yo', an' wantin' to stroke yo'r hair like as if yo' wer' a cat. But aw'll begin at th' beginnin'."