"But I haven't no fear," she went on, "though we never know what's to come. But you're a strong man, and there's not like to be many more years for me--though I'm so well an' happy." "You might live a score," he answered in an abstracted way, his eyes still fixed on her. "Not without you," she returned. "It's you that's life to me--an' strength--an' peace." The innocent tears were in her voice again, and her eyes were bright with them. He lay down awhile but could not lie still. He got up and came and stood near her and talked and then moved here and there, picking up one thing and another, holding them idly for a few seconds and then setting them aside. At last she was going to bed and came to bid him good-night. He laid his hand on her shoulder caressingly. "There's never been aught like trouble between us two," he said. "I've been a quiet enough chap, and different somehow--when I've been nigh you. What I've done, I've done for your sake and for the best." In the morning the Works were closed, the doors of the Bank remained unopened, and the news spread like wildfire from house to house and from street to street and beyond the limits of the town--until before noon it was known through the whole country side that Ffrench had fled and Jem Haworth was a ruined man. It reached the public ear in the first instance in the ordinary commonplace manner through the individuals who had suddenly descended upon the place to take possession. A great crowd gathered about the closed gates and murmured and stared and anathematized. "Theer's been summat up for mony a month," said one sage. "I've seed it. He wur na hissen, wur na Haworth." "Nay," said another, "that he wur na. Th' chap has na been o' a decent spree sin' Ffrench coom." "Happen," added a third, "_that_ wur what started him on th' road downhill. A chap is na good fur much as has na reg'lar habits." "Aye, an' Haworth wur reg'lar enow when he set up. Good Lord! who'd ha' thowt o' that chap i' bankrup'cy!" At the outset the feeling manifested was not unamiable to Haworth, but it was not very long before the closing of the Bank dawned upon the public in a new light. It meant loss and ruin. The first man who roused the tumult was a burly farmer who dashed into the town on a sweating horse, spurring it as he rode and wearing a red and furious face. He left his horse at an inn and came down to the Bank, booted and spurred and whip in hand. "Wheer's Ffrench?" he shouted to the smaller crowd attracted there, and whose views as to the ultimate settlement of things were extremely vague. "Wheer's Ffrench an' wheer's Haworth?" Half a dozen voices volunteered information regarding Ffrench, but no one knew anything of Haworth. He might be in a dozen places, but no one had yet seen him or heard of his whereabouts. The man began to push his way toward the building, swearing hotly. He mounted the steps and struck violently on the door with his whip.