The month within which Mary must give her answer to Walker's mother stole on. I scarce could trust myself to look on Mary so sad and wan was she. But one morning towards the middle of December after she had sided the breakfast things she donned her Sunday clothes, a thing rarely done on week-days in our house, except for visits of more than common ceremony, or for weddings and parties. "I'm going to Huddersfe'lt and mebbe a step beyond," she told my mother. "To see thi Aunt Matty?" "I'st happen see her." My heart quaked. "Yo'r never goin' to Walker's?" I asked when I could speak to her alone. "Trust me for that," she said. "I'd rather walk a good few miles another way." "Then where'st ta goin'?" I persisted, "an' winnot yo' tak' Faith? Th' walk 'll happen do her good if she wraps well up." "Faith mun see to th' mixin' o' th' Kersmas cake. Awn towd her how to mix th' dough, an' aw'll hope 'oo'll mak' a better job on it nor 'oo did o' th' parkin o' Bunfire Day; but it's never too late to larn, an' awm thinkin' it won't be long afore she'll need to know summat more nor to play on th' spinnet an' to sing hymns an' love ditties. They'll boil no man's kettle." But of her errand to Huddersfield I could get no inkling, and off she set in the forenoon through the snow with warm hood over her head and thick Paisley shawl and mittens, and pattens to her feet, as sweet a picture as ever went down that hill before or since. It was night, eight o'clock, when she came home, and many a time I'd gone into the lane and strained my eyes across the valley to watch the road from Kitchen Fold. The snow was falling thick, and when Mary entered her shawl was covered with the flakes and little feathery sprays were on the curls that twined and twisted from beneath the hood. Her cheeks that had grown so pale were a rosy flush with the keen frosty air, her eyes were bright and glad and there was the first smile upon her lips had played there for many a doleful day. She shook her shawl at the house door, whilst Vixen yapped and gambolled about her and Faith made haste to remove her pattens and knock the clogged snow from the irons while Mary smoothed her hair before the little glass by the window. "An' how's thi Aunt Matty?" asked my mother; "an dun yo' want owt to eit? Yo'll be ready for yo'r porridge aw sud judge. Is 'oo bearin' up pretty well, an' did ta see John Wood, an' is he lookin' as ill favored as ivver?" "Let th' lass get her breath," pleaded my father.