"Canna tha?" he responded. "Canna thee, Sararann? Well, I dunnot wonder. It wur a good bit afore I straightened it out mysen. Happen I hannot getten things as they mout be yet. Theer wur a good deal o' talk an' a good deal o' beer, an' a man as has been misforchnit is loike to be slow." After which he fell into a deep and untroubled slumber, and it being found impossible to rouse him, he spent the remainder of the night in Granny Dixon's chair by the fire, occasionally startling the echoes of the silent room by a loud and encouraging "Eer-eer!" During the following two weeks, Haworth did not go to the Ffrench's. He spent his nights at his own house in dull and sullen mood. At the Works, he kept his word as regarded Ffrench. That gentleman's lines had scarcely fallen in pleasant places. His partner was gruff and authoritative, and not given to enthusiasm. There were times when only his good-breeding preserved the outward smoothness of affairs. "But," he said to his daughter, "one does not expect good manners of a man like that. They are not his _forte_." At the end of the two weeks there came one afternoon a message to Haworth in his room. Murdoch was with him when it arrived. He read it, and, crushing it in his hand, threw it into the fire. "They're a nice lot," he said with a short laugh, "coming down on a fellow like that." And then an oath broke from him. "I've give up two or three things," he said, "and they're among 'em. It's th' last time, and----" He took down his overcoat and began to put it on. "Tell 'em," he said to Murdoch as he went out,--"tell 'em I'm gone home, and sha'n't be back till morning. Keep the rest to yourself." He went out, shutting the door with a bang. Murdoch stood at the window and watched him drive away in his gig. He was scarcely out of sight before a carriage appeared, moving at a very moderate pace. It was a bright though cold day, and the top of the carriage was thrown back, giving the occupant the benefit of the sunshine. The occupant in question was Rachel Ffrench, who looked up and bestowed upon the figure at the window a slight gesture of recognition. Murdoch turned away with an impatient movement after she had passed. "Pooh!" he said, angrily. "He's a fool." By midnight of the same day Haworth had had time to half forget his scruples. He had said to his visitors what he had said to Murdoch, with his usual frankness. "It's the last time. We've done with each other after this, you know. It's the last time. Make the most on it." There was a kind of desperate exultation in his humor. If he had dared, he would have liked to fling aside every barrier of restraint and show himself at his worst, defying the world; but fear held him in check, as nothing else would have done,--an abject fear of consequences.