"And now what's to be done?" I asked, as we rose from the table. "There's one thing certain, I can't sit here doing nowt. I'st go off mi head if I don't do summat. "Sit yo' down, man, an' have a reek o' baccy," advised Jim. "Did ever a man get i' such a state ovver a wench missin' a tryst. There's a thousand things may ha' happened to prevent her being at th' Church Inn at th' time. Owd Mr. Buckley or his missus may ha' been ta'en badly, or she may ha' towd 'em what she were up to an' they may ha' put a spoke i' th' wheel, which it's noan so likely they'd care to ha' her trapezin' ovver th' moors be hersen, or happen oo's strained her ankle, or happen oh! what's th' use o' fancyin' this an' fancyin' that, th' lass is reet enough, choose wheer oo is, yo' may tak' yo'r davy o' that. Oo may be here onny minnit if oo's comm at a', an if oo isn't, oo isn't, an all th' frettin' an' fumin' i' th' world won't bring her here." "I shan't sleep to-night till I know the truth of the matter," I declared. "I'll give her just another half-hour, and then, if she come not, I'm off to Bent Hall." They'll be i' bed bi th' time yo' get theer, opined Mary, who herself seldom in winter time was up after nine o'clock. "And I'll see Ruth home to th' Pole," said Jim. "Miriam 'll be theer, it's long odds. It's a gooid as a play thee goin' to Micklehurst to look for Miriam an' Miriam goin' to th' Pole to look for thee. But if nowt else 'll settle, thee best be startin'. An' when yo' get theer be sewer to mak' 'em gi' yo' summat for supper, for tha ate no dinner for thinkin' Miriam were comin', an' tha's etten no tea for knowin' who hasn't, an' tha'll none last long at that gait. Aw'm thinkin' at this noit tha'd better get wed if for nowt but th' savin' it'll be in shoe leather." The night was, indeed, far advanced when, worn somewhat by my long tramps of that day, but worn far more by the tumult of my mind, I pealed at the big iron knocker of Bent Hall. I found Mr. and Mrs. Buckley seated in a warm and cosy parlour, the old gentleman sitting in slippered ease in a capacious armchair, with a cigar between his lips and a glass of steaming grog by his side. I told my story. Yes, Miriam had started for Saddleworth after an early midday meal, which Mrs. Buckley called luncheon. They had wanted to send her by the carriage, urging that it was a long trail from the Church Inn to Wrigley Mill, and thence to Pole Moor. But Miriam had made light of the walk, declaring laughingly that she was getting stiff in her limbs for want of exercise, and that one who had from infancy wandered all day long over hill and dale need not fear to walk from Micklehurst to Pole Moor. Besides, would she not have a long rest at Mary Haigh's. "Then she must have gone straight on to th' Pole," I cried.