“Why, bless the girl, settled to marry Jim Preston, to be sure,” said Mrs. Benson, peevishly. “It ain’t no good to keep on a-beatin’ about the bush. Ye’ll ’ave to do it sooner or later.” “I can’t marry Mr. Preston, mother,” repeated the poor creature in a dull voice. “I told you and father I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be fair to _him_ any ways. I’ve told ’im so, and ’e ain’t goin’ to ask me no more.” Mrs. Benson let herself flop into a chair. “Ye’ll be the death o’ me, Bess,” she whimpered. “Ain’t goin’ to ask ye no more! Lord, what’ll yer father say?” “I don’t know,” said the girl. “I told Mr. Preston he wouldn’t want to marry me if he knew all, and he ain’t goin’ to ask me no more.” Mrs. Benson lifted a pair of scared eyes before her daughter and looked at her searchingly. “Whatever did ye tell ’im?” whispered she. “No more than that, mother,” said Bess. “But I can’t never marry nobody but Charley Chiswick, and if I don’t marry ’im I must bide single.” “Lord-a-mercy, and to think we must needs come to this!” moaned the mother. “And we allers ’olding our ’eads so ’igh in the village and fit to do it too! Nobody won’t be able to say no more that Mary Benson’s nasty proud! I sha’n’t dare look folk in the face, I sha’n’t! I sha’n’t dare go to church.” “Mother,” said the girl, disregarding her complaint and suddenly and desperately resolving to make one first and last appeal to the only possible helper she had—“mother, won’t ye ’elp me to marry Charley Chiswick? Won’t ye?” Her voice shook for the first time and she looked up piteously. But the mother turned away her eyes. “’Elp ye to marry Charley Chiswick!” echoed she stupidly. “Why, father’d kill me for it, ye know ’e would, Bess! ’Ow can ye ask such a thing and you knowing ’ow set on ’e is against it all?” Mrs. Benson fell a-crying again, and Bess turned away with a sigh. “Why, ’e told me I was to lock ye up if ye ’adn’t come to no understanding with Jim Preston, ’e did. ‘Mary,’ says he, ‘she ain’t fit to go out-doors, and out-doors she don’t go till she goes as Jim Preston’s wife.’ Ye knows as well as me what father is. There ain’t no gainsayin’ father.” Bess raked the fire together. The last ashes of her letter had disappeared. “Very well,” said she quietly. “Ye needn’t trouble to lock me up, mother. I won’t come down no more till father sends for me.” She folded away the duster with which she had been doing her work and went out of the room. And the mother sat there only feebly crying and listlessly listening to the young footfall as it lightly shook the rafters of the old chamber overhead.