“We all comed out to do a bit o’ Christmas shoppin’, Mrs. Sibley, d’ye see. But I’m sorry I missed ye. Will ye step in and have a drop o’ tea wi’ us? Selina will hurry on and get it ready.” “No, thank ye,” returned Mrs. Sibley gloomily; “I’ll not go in now, Mrs. Fry--not when all your family’s about. I was a-lookin’ for a word wi’ ’ee confidential-like. I was a-wantin’ for to ax your advice, Mrs. Fry.” “Oh, and was ye?” said Mrs. Fry, much impressed. “Tell ’ee what--I’ll send the childern home wi’ ’Lina an’ I’ll step in to your place, Mrs. Sibley, my dear. But all Foyle’s family ’ull be there, won’t they?--there’ll not be much chance to talk private.” “There will, though,” returned Mrs. Sibley. “I sent the childern out wi’ their father a-purpose. Things is gettin’ serious, Mrs. Fry; but there! I can’t converse out here. Best let the matter bide till we be safe in my house.” Mrs. Fry hastily detached the small chubby hands of Halfred--she had a pretty taste in nomenclature--who was clinging to her skirts, and desiring the child to run home-along wi’ ’Lina, gave her undivided attention to her neighbour. “Not here,” said Mrs. Sibley impressively, as she began to ply her with questions; “at my house.” They turned aside into the first cottage of the group, and Mrs. Sibley, opening the gate, stalked in front of her crony along the flagged path, and flung open the house-door. Pausing in the middle of the kitchen, she added emphatically, “In Foyle’s house I should say.” “It be the same thing, bain’t it?” returned Mrs. Fry cheerfully, “or like to be soon.” “Be it?” said Mrs. Sibley witheringly. “Be it, Martha?” Mrs. Fry set down her market-basket, and dropped into the nearest chair. “Lard, my dear, you do make I feel quite nervish. Be things a-goin’ wrong?” Mrs. Sibley folded her arms, and surveyed her for a moment in silence. She was an angular woman with a frosty eye, which she now fixed grimly on Mrs. Fry. “I don’t say as they be a-goin’ wrong,” she remarked after a pause, “but they don’t seem to be a-goin’ right. Foyle, there, he haven’t got the spirit of a mouse.” “Hasn’t he said nothin’--nothin’ at all?” inquired Mrs. Fry, resting a plump hand on either knee and leaning forward. “Not a single word,” replied her friend; “that’s to say, not a word wi’ any sense in it. An’ Sibley have been gone six months now, mind ye.” “So he have!” replied Mrs. Fry. “An’ ye mid say as you’ve been so good as a widder for nigh upon six year--ye mid indeed. A husband what’s in the ’sylum is worse nor no husband at all. An’ ye’ve a-been keepin’ house for Foyle these four year, haven’t ye?”