"Yo' see mother an' me thinks a deal o' Mester Murdoch, because he is na one o' th' drinkin' soart," proceeded Janey. "He's th' steady koind as is fond o' books an' th' loike. He does na mak' much at his trade, but he knows more than yo'd think for, to look at him." "That is good news," said Miss Ffrench, cheerfully. Janey rested her chin upon her parcel, warming to the subject. "I should na wonder if he getten to be a rich mon some o' these days," she went on. "He's getten th' makin's on it in him, if he has th' luck an' looks sharp about him. I often tell him he mun look sharp." She became so communicative indeed, that Miss Ffrench found herself well entertained. She heard the details of Haworth's history, the reports of his prosperity and growing wealth, the comments his hands had made upon herself, and much interesting news concerning the religious condition of Broxton and "th' chapel." It was growing dusk when the interview ended, and when she went away Janey carried an additional bundle. "Does tha allus dress i' this road?" she had asked her hostess, and the question suggested to Miss Ffrench a whimsical idea. She took the child upstairs and gave her maid orders to produce all the cast-off finery she could find, and then stood by and looked on as Janey made her choice. "She stood theer laughin' while I picked th' things out," said Janey afterward. "I dunnot know what she wur laughin' at. Yo' nivver know whether she's makin' game on you or not." "I dunnot see as theer wur owt to laugh at," said Mrs. Briarley, indignantly. "Nay," said Janey, "nor me neyther, but she does na laugh when theer's owt to laugh at--that's th' queer part o' it. She said as I could ha' more things when I coom again, I would na go if it wur na fur that." Even his hands found out at this time that Haworth was ill at ease. His worst side showed itself in his intercourse with them. He was overbearing and difficult to please. He found fault and lost his temper over trifles, and showed a restless, angry desire to assert himself. "I'll show you who's master here, my lads," he would say. "I'll ha' no dodges. It's Haworth that's th' head o' this concern. Whoever comes in or out, this here's 'Haworth's.' Clap that i' your pipes and smoke it." "Summat's up," said Floxham. "Summat's up. Mark yo' that." Murdoch looked on with no inconsiderable anxiety. The intercourse between himself and Haworth had been broken in upon. It had received its first check months before, and in these days neither was in the exact mood for a renewal of it. Haworth wore a forbidding air. His rough good-fellowship was a thing of the past. He made no more boisterous jokes, no more loud boasts. At times his silence was almost morose. He was not over civil even to Ffrench, who came oftener than ever, and whose manner was cheerful to buoyancy.