The tremor in her voice had more effect on her companion than the indisputable wisdom of her words; Annie vaguely realised, unconscious that she did so, a sensation that she was receiving sympathy. That loosed the restraint that held her heart in bands, and the wish to speak became irresistible. Her companion listened and worked, and felt troubled and confused, as one before waters too deep for her to sound. ‘Alice, have you seen t’ Thackbusk when it’s late at night,’ cried Annie, ‘when t’ mist have risen so as you can’t see t’ moon? you can’t think how strange it looks and big an’ solemn, t’ great flat fields, an’ t’ willows in the dusk. I mind me of a night about a year ago when I ran out there because mother scolded me, an’ I got frighted with the great mists all round me, an’ all the grass white and strange wi’ moon an’ mist. An’ now I keep feeling as if I was there again, an’ all t’ mist round me, an’ keepin’ me from home, an’ I keep wantin’ t’ light in mother’s window, an’ it’s not there, an’ I can’t get back to it. I don’t know what to do with t’ feeling, that I don’t--it a’most makes me cry--and I can’t get free from it.’ She put up her hand to shield her eyes for an instant, and then went on quietly with her work, though not before a sudden catching of her breath had told of trouble as plainly as her words. Her companion was in no haste to break the silence, and some minutes passed without a word from either. Outside the window the pigeons gleamed and fluttered, and clouds and blue sky looked down upon the yard. ‘Annie,’ said Alice softly, ‘won’t you come with me, an’ hear Mr Bender speak in Harmenton--he’s going to hold a class-meetin’ there to-day, for the sake o’ them as can’t get over to the town? I didn’t think of going, not to-day, but I’d be glad enough if you’d like to come with me.’