"'Oo's there, Jack--in th' corner there, under Milly. Yo' needn't fear to wakken her--'oo sleeps very sound. Gi' my compliments to Fat Ann at th' Cherry Tree an' tell her th' missus is much obliged. But 'oo isn't very hungry just now. Th' parson says 'oo's gone where there's nother hunger nor sorrow. But aw reckon if there is such a shop, there'll be no room there for my owd woman. Th' rich folk 'll ha' spokken for them parts, th' poor 'll be crowded out, same as they are here. An' yo', Ben Bamforth, an' yo' come to look on your handiwork? Yo' may lift th' cuvverin' for yersen. Novver mind Milly 'oo'll greet hersen to sleep agen, when yo're gone. Tak' a good look, man--it's nobbut a dead woman, improved off th' face o' th' earth--clemmed to death bi improvements. Nay dunna flinch, man, 'oo'll nother flyte thee nor bite thee." But I could not look, and I went silently out into the rutty, dirty lane and the murk night so cold and raw. For I had no words of comfort for the man--I could not speak in that silent presence--so I slipped away, only minding to pass a coin or two into the hands of Soldier Jack--"Light a fire and fetch a woman," I whispered, and Jack nodded and made no effort to have me stay. I was in a distracted state of mind, drawn now this way and now that, as I made my way to Slaithwaite. My promise to George lay heavy on me, and I loved the lad. The scene of which I had been just now the witness filled me with an intense sorrow for the suffering I knew to be rife around us. But I shrunk from violence of any kind and from conflict with the law, of which I had a wholesome dread. I confess here, once and for all, I am not made of the stuff of which captains, heroes and martyrs are made--I asked nothing better of the world than to go my own way quietly and doucely, earning by honest toil sufficient for my daily needs, sustained by the affection of those I loved and safe in the esteem and goodwill of my little world. I was not therefore best pleased when Mary met me at the door and handed me a note which had been brought by an unknown messenger, who had been charged, he said, to give it into her own hands, and to impress upon her that she herself should convey it safely to me. It was addressed to me, and though I had had few letters from George Mellor I knew his handwriting, and I judged, too, that Mary knew it, and had all a woman's curiousness to know what the letter might say. It was brief enough, anyhow: "Meet me on Thursday night at nine o'clock at the Inn at Buckstones. --George."