"Oh! Jim," she said disparagingly, with that utter lack of justice in the award of praise and blame which riper years have taught me to look for her in her sex. Well now, how long we sat there I don't know: it seemed but a few minutes. But suddenly she sprang up in consternation. "I must be going; they'll be searching for me." "I'll see you home," I said. "Tarry a while, Miriam, I've such a lot to say." "I daren't. I must go, and go alone. You must not be seen with me. Granddam would bar me in, and Ephraim--oh! I daren't think what Ephraim would do. He's brave and means to be kind. But you cannot tell what he's like when his blood's up and the drink's in him." "I'm not feared," I said stoutly. "No, but I am. Burnplatters don't stick at trifles, and a knife in the back on a dark night's little to them. Never come nigh Burnplatts again." "But, Miriam, see you I must. See, I'll bring Ruth, my sister Ruth. You'd love Ruth." "Aye, but would Ruth love me?" "I'll go bail," I answered with great confidence. "I should dearly like it. But how to manage it. When will you be on Pole Moor again? To-morrow night I'll be here an hour after sunset. And now go, go. Good-night and go." I pressed her hand and she sped away on feet that seemed scarce to touch the heather. CHAPTER IV. THE TRYST. THE next day, being the Sabbath, all our household must go to Chapel. Jim, contrary to his wont on the day of rest, was astir betimes. We had shared the same bed, and I should think that between cockcrow and seven o'clock Jim had drawn his great silver watch from under his pillow a score of times, and seemed to find the hours go on leaden feet. To my impatient inquiry why he couldn't be still and give me a chance of dropping off, he explained that he had promised our Ruth to milk the cow for her. Now I am firmly persuaded that Jim had never performed that delicate operation before, and for anything he knew to the contrary the udders might be relieved of their milky stream by machinery. At last, to my great content he got up, dressed, and stole down the creaking staircase in his stocking feet, and I heard him lighting the kitchen fire and, if I greatly erred not, vigorously fettling his boots--at which I marvelled not a little, for at Wrigley it was his mother who lit the fire and cleaned his boots--but then to be sure, Ruth was not his mother, nor yet his wife. I suppose I shall never forget my father's sermon of that, morning, nor, I think, will Jim. I learned long afterwards that it had been composed by my father and was that morning preached because one of the members of Pole Moor had so far fallen from grace as to marry one of the uncovenanted worshippers at St. James's instead of fixing his affections upon a sister of the true faith.