"Tha'rt none feart, are ta, John. Tha can slip off, if tha likes. Aw'll ma'e some mak' o' a story to quieten George. Tha looks poorly enough for owt." "Quit yo'r talking, Ben. I would not turn back if I could. But, Ben, this night's work will be my last. Something tells me my days are numbered I do not know I need greet for that. It's a weary world, and I'st be well out on it." "Yo're just talking daft," I said, but I felt somehow that he was telling truth. I could not make light of what he said, though I tried. "If I don't go back to Huddersfield with you, Ben, you'll find a paper at Mrs. Wight's, telling yo' what to do with my bits o' things. There's Hume's History of England. Yo've always said yo'd like to read it. Mi Bible's for Faith, and this ring for Mary, wi my love, an' give George th' silver buckles off my Sunday shoon. It'll be for you to tell my father and Faith. No one else must do it. Promise me that." "Do ho'd thi talkin, John, an' dall thee, dunnot look so solemn. I'st be angered wi' thee in a bit." I wanted to feel angry, to work myself into wrath, for I knew if this talk went on, I should soon be fit for nowt myself. "Nay, Ben, bear with me. Faith will be a lone lass, when I am gone. She loves me, Ben, with more than a sister's love. You see my mother died when I were born. I wish she were well wed, George. I should not fear leaving her if I knew she were plighted to a good man." "There's yo'r father," I said; "but what child's talk we're talking. Tha'll noan fall, John; aw dunn't believe in forebodings an' such woman's fancies. It's thi liver, John. Let's go back; George 'll be missing us. Stick as close to me as tha can get, when we come to th' mill, an' aw'll see nobody touches thee, if I can help it." "My father's an old man," pursued Booth, not heeding what I said. "An old man, wrapped in his books, and more helpless than Faith herself. Do you like Faith, Ben? I've fancied of late she turns to thee I know she trusts you and seems to lean on your strength. Women like power in a man, Ben, not wrecklings like me." "Yo're noan a wreckling, lad. It's th' head folk measure men by, not legs an' arms." "Ivy will cling to the oak, Ben, for all that, an' Faith's is a clinging nature. Yo'll stand by her, if th' worst comes to th' worst. Promise me, Ben. On thi word as a man, Ben, pledge me thi promise, an' I'll go to this night's work wi' a lighter heart." A whistle sounded shrill and clear from by the Steeple. It was the signal to fall in. We turned to join our comrades. John held me by the hand, and his pale, thin face, with those large, soft, woman's eyes of his, was turned up to me, all entreaty.