A sudden movement like a quiver in his companion arrested his voice, and brought a cloud on his face, but Annie had turned herself towards the fireplace, and from where he sat he could not see how she looked. For a while he was silent, as if he were meditating, with his eyes fixed again on the red bricks of the floor. ‘Alice she don’t like ’em, these Gillans,’ he said at last with an effort; ‘she wishes they’d take ’emselves off and leave t’ place; she says as we donno what they done in London, or what’s the reason as have brought ’em here. They say as they’ve come to see Mr Lee i’ Lindum, but if they’re his nephy an’ niece he don’t take no heed to ’em; he’s good an’ respectable, and’s got a deal o’ money, an’ it’s happen he doesn’t like ’em or their ways. They call ’emselves lady and genelman, but they’re not a piece o’ that; the girl’s like a play-actor, wi’ her eyes an’ tricks; an’ as for t’ lad, he’s not no good at all, he goes to t’ town most evenings, as I hear. I don’t like no strangers here, nor never did; t’ village is best wi’out such folk as them.’ Again there was silence, whilst Annie leant on her pillow, with her work on her lap, and her face turned to the fire; whilst Tim, without trying to catch a sight of her face, looked hard at the bricks as if he were counting them. The storm which had been slowly rising all the morning, was beginning to beat in slow drops on the panes; from the room overhead could be heard some gentle movements, the footsteps of Jenny at her work. The increasing gloom may have served as encouragement, for Annie turned her face slowly towards her companion at length. ‘Do you know--Mr Gillan?’ she asked below her breath; and even as she spoke there rose in her pale cheeks the slow burning flush that tells of hidden fire. Tim’s eyes were on her face, he appeared to be uneasy; it was only after a while that he could compel himself to speak. ‘I--know him?--I’ve seen him oftens’--he muttered, brokenly; ‘I’m likely to see him sin’ I lodge in t’ house; but I’ve never not gone to speak no word to him; he goes upon his way, and I go on mine.’ He paused for a moment as if he had something on his mind whose utterance was almost more than he could compass. ‘_Do ye know him, Annie?_’ he asked in a low voice, with a terrible effort, and turning his face away--at the last moment afraid to read upon her features the answer to this question which he had come to her home to ask. It may be that the pain and difficulty with which the question came were like a revelation even to himself. But Annie allowed him no time for meditation, for with a sudden movement she sat upright and spoke. ‘What dost mean?’ she cried to him, with her eyes bright and sparkling, and her voice indescribably sharp in utterance, a tone and a manner that might have been sufficient to crush the courage of any questioner. But Tim was confident in his good intentions; and, moreover, he was not easily overwhelmed.