"Cannot yo' let things bide, George? Happen things 'll shape theirsen. It's little such as us can do to mend things. If tha' were Lord Dartmouth na', tha' might do some good. But aw can see nowt but trouble for thee i' me'lling i' this wark, and what hurts thee tha' knows well will hurt me, George." "Aw know that, Ben. And aw've more reason nor ever o' late for keeping out o' trouble. Is there ought between thee and Mary, Ben?" "What, our Mary?" I asked, bewildered, somewhat by so sudden a change of subject, and not seeing the working of George's mind. "Aye, your Mary," said George. "What does ta' want to know for, George?" I asked; and I tried to ask as though I cared little for the answer, and yet I knew, all of a flash like, what the answer would be, and that somehow, and why I could scarce even myself say to myself, the answer would make me wince. "Because, George, if ever aw wed, your Mary will be the lass." "Yo'll happen ask her first," I said, nettled. "P'raps tha's axed her already?" "Tha' knows very well aw hannot, Ben. It only came into my head last neet when 'oo were singing 'Wild Shepherds.' 'Oo's a sweet voice, an' th' way she looks when 'oo sings makes yo' think a bit o' heaven's opened up, an' th' light inside is shinin' right down on her face--hasn't ta' noticed it, Ben?" "Mary's ower young for courtin'," I said. "But tha' hasn't told me, Ben, is there owt between yo' and her? But there cannot be. Tha'd ha' told me if there wor. Besides she's too near o' kin to thee an' browt up i' th' same house too. She'll be more sister like to thee, Ben, aw reckon. But is there owt?" "Nay there's nowt, George. She's thine to win an' to wear for me. But 'oo's ovver young for courtin', George. An' if yo'r for our Mary, tha' mun put all thowts out o' thi yed but stickin' to work an' makin' her a good home. And that reminds me. It 'ad welly slipt mi mind. Soldier Jack was hinting summat t'other day. Tha' are'nt keeping owt back fra' me, are ta, George?" "Can aw trust thee, Ben?" "Tha' knows that best thissen, George." We had reached the very crest of Stanedge, and were looking down upon the Diggle side and over towards Pots an' Pans an' where the road leads to St. Chad's and winds round towards what is now called Bills o' Jack's. We came to a stand by common impulse. George stood right anent me. "Can aw trust thee, Ben," he asked again, and looked at me as though he would search my very heart. "Tha' knows best thissen," I replied once more; for I should have thought to lower myself by protesting to him who had been my dearest, almost my only friend, since we were boys together. "With my life, Ben," he said very solemnly, and took my hand.