"Eh, awm fair moithered, Ben. Aw know this, if wed him I must aw'll mak' a hole i' th' cut th' same neet," and Mary sobbed again. And I declare that I was happier whilst I soothed her and whispered words of bye and pressed kisses on her cheek and lips than ever before. For never till then had I realized to the full all the sweet privileges of our love. CHAPTER XII. I HAD got my affairs into, a pretty tangle, and for the life of me I could not see my way out of the mess. I lived in daily terror of arrest. I was not even supported by what appeals so strongly to a young man's vanity--popular good-will. When a man gets older he comes to esteem the applause of the world at its proper worth, largely indifferent to it and content if happily he can be assured of the good-will of his own conscience. But even the poor solace of the public voice was just now denied the poor Luds. The murder of Mr. Horsfall had revolted the general mind. So I found myself quaking at every step that approached the door when I kept the house, and met with looks averted or openly hostile when I took my walks abroad, which was not oftener than needs must be. Then there was that diabolic threat of Ben o' Buck's, which I had no reason to hope he would not make good. I could not essay to save my own skin by counselling Mary to have Ben Walker. Even had I not loved her myself I could scarce have brought her to that. Add to this the reflection that, innocently and honestly enough, I had probably been the means of drawing upon George Mellor's head the spiteful hatred of the traitor by giving him to believe that it was a made up thing between Mary and George. I tell you I could neither eat nor sleep these days for thinking of all these matters. And Mary looked worn and ill. The rose's began to fade from her cheeks, she had scarce a word to throw at a dog, and as the days grew to weeks her gloom deepened and misery showed more plain upon her face. I took counsel of 'Siah. I was in such straits that I could have found it in my heart to seek wisdom from the town fool. 'Siah had a short cut out of the whole perplexity. "Yo' mun get untwisted, Ben," said 'Si. "What's untwisted?" I asked. "I cannot tell wher' yo'r wits are these days," said 'Siah impatiently. "Theer tha sits by th' fireside, counting th' co'wks' an' glowerin' into th' ass-hoil, as if that 'ud do thi ony good. Tha shud stir about, mon, an' hear whats a foot. There's more i'spiration, as th' parson calls it, to be fun' at th' Black Bull i' hauf an hour nor i' a week o' sulkin' at whom bi thissen." "Aw've no faith i' th' counsel 'at's to be found at th' bottom o' an' ale-pot, 'Si." "Who want's thee to ha? Th'art as bad as Martha for preachin' these days. Ther'll be no livin' for sermons soon. There's summat beside drinkin' goin' off in a public." "Well, lets hear it?" I said passively, for I had not much faith in what 'Siah might have picked up in his haunts. "Aw tell thee tha should get untwisted." "Well?"