Once there was questioning that was not mute. It was a Sunday evening, about the time of the meeting at the Nag's Head. We had been to chapel, and Mr. Webster was home with us to supper. John Booth and Faith were there. The nights were lengthening, and there was a warmer breath in the air, and the cuckoo had been heard on Wimberlee. After supper I had set myself to walk towards Huddersfield with John and Faith, and before we must start Faith had said she would like me to show her the roan calf, new come, whilst Martha made up a bottle of the beestings to carry home with her, so we went together into the shippon. The little straddling thing was in a corner by itself, warded off, and Faith bent over it and let the ruddy little thing suck and slobber over her hand, whilst the mother with patient wistful eyes looked over her shoulder and lowed lovingly. Then I must wipe Faith's little hand with a wisp of hay, and I vow it was a monstrous pretty hand, white and thin, not like Mary's, brown and firm and plump. And whilst I held her hand in my big palm, Faith looked up to my face in the obscure light of the mistal and said very softly: "Ben, you know our John is soft and easy led, not big and strong as your are. And oh! if harm come to John it would kill my father and go nigh to break my heart. And now he has secrets from me. He is anxious and ill at ease. He is no longer frank and glad, and he tells me nothing. And Mrs. Wright, the saddler's wife, where you know he is serving his time, tells me he is sore changed of late--stopping out to all hours, and strange men coming to their shop with letters and messages, and John whispering in corners with them as if he were plotting a murder. She says she cannot sleep o' nights for thinking of it all. And oh! Ben, my heart tells me he is in danger, and what shall I do if harm befall him?" "Nay, Faith, lass," I said, stooping down to get a fresh wisp of hay, and maybe to hide my face from that gaze that seemed to read my thoughts too plain, "Nay, Faith, what harm should befall your John? You mustn't set too much store by what Mrs. Wright says. What if John does stop out a bit late at nights? Saddlering's a confining job, and most like John needs a long walk to straighten his limbs after being at th' bench all day with his legs twisted all shapes like a Turk. An' yo're never sure, yo' know, Faith, o' young folk, even th' quiet 'uns. Perhaps your John's doing a bit o' courting." "Ah! Ben, if I could think it were only that. For well I know if John were cour--; were doing what you say, you'd be like enough to know of it." Now how should that be I wondered, but said nothing, only too glad to think I had set her thoughts on a false scent.