And about Miriam there were a thousand rumours and wild conjectures. Mary Haigh's cottage had been simply besieged by women itching to know the very truth of the whole business; but, though Mary's tongue ran on wheels most times, she knew when to keep it still. And, of course, the more she didn't tell, the more everybody seemed to know. Miriam was the daughter of a wicked baronet, and had been changed at birth; Miriam had been proved to be the rightful heiress to fabulous sums now safely, perhaps too safely, coffered in that mysterious repository of great fortunes known as Chancery; Miriam had been the cause of a bloody feud between the gipsy king and the parson's son; Miriam was a godless heathen who had been brought to grace by the little parson of Pole Moor; Miriam could neither read nor write; Miriam was a prodigy of wit and learning, and could divine the future by the stars--in fine, Miriam was more than a nine days' wonder for all the womenfolk and some of the men of the other side of Stanedge, as we of Pole Moor called the Diggle Valley. When Mary and Jim and I got to Holly Grove on the eventful afternoon of that ever-memorable service, we found my father and Miriam and Ruth already arrived, and seated in great state in one of the big front rooms of that imposing mansion. As we walked up Ward Lane and along the tree-flanked carriage drive there had been great debate as to whether we should knock boldly at the great white front door with the flower garden facing towards Greenfield, or whether we should, as usual, seek admission to the presence by way of the kitchen. The debate ended, as great debates often end, by a compromise, it being finally settled, to Jim's secret relief, that Mary and I should take our courage in both hands and valiantly assail the front door knocker, whilst Jim modestly tapped at the back. We need have been under no apprehensions, for no sooner was Mary within than she was pounced upon by Mrs. Wrigley and Miriam and Ruth and conveyed upstairs to be relieved of bonnet and her wondrous shawl, and Jim and myself were bid by Mr. Wrigley to help ourselves to the gin and water if we wanted to wet our clays, as he called it, and then, taking no more notice of us, he fell to, hammer and tongs, at my poor father. Now I had always known my good master as a silent, reserved man, very gentle with the children at the Sunday school, seldom taking vocal part in the prayer meetings, except in the hymns, which he sang very heartily and very much out of tune. But now, whether it was the gin and water, or whether it was the theme, he came out in quite a new character. I would have you know that those were the days of the great Reform Bill that set all classes by the ears. And Mr. Wrigley, as beseemed a good Wesleyan, was as stout a Tory as ever drew on a pair of Wellington tops, and my father, as was but natural in a Baptist, was as stout a Whig.