I think it will not be denied that conversation with Jim in this phase of his development was attended with difficulties. However, we put on our Sunday best, and after Mary had straightened Jim's neckcloth and inspected his boots and brushed an imaginary speck of dust from his coat sleeve--tender ministrations under which Jim fidgeted impatiently, declaring that his mother couldn't make more coil if he was going to be wed--we set off for the Warping Room a few minutes before eleven o'clock, both feeling very sleepy, and much more inclined for bed than worship. We hadn't far to go, for Mary's cottage was in the front of a small block of buildings in the mill yard, and the office or counting house at the back, and over the counting house, up a short, worm-eaten flight of steps, the warping room, evidently two bedrooms knocked into one chamber--and a smallish chamber at that. It was an ideal winter's night. The moon sailed in a cloudless sky gemmed with glittering stars. The ground was deep in virgin snow. Not a breath of air fluttered the fallen flakes. No sound broke the silence save the babbling of Diggle Brook and the crunching of the snow under our clogging shoon. The Old Year was dying in a rare peace. It had been the year that had brought to me the greatest gifts life holds for man--a pure maiden's trust and love--and I had nought but benedictions to soothe its passing. As we reached the foot of the short flight of stairs that led to the warping room we heard the words of the familiar hymn: "Thy faithful people praise Thee, Lord, For countless gifts received; And pray for grace to keep the Faith, Which saints of old believed." And the words found a ready echo in my heart. "That's a Church hymn," remarked Jim, as we waited in the little throng pressing for entry, "that's noan Methody. We'st ha' 'Another rollin' year, another rollin' year, has swiftly passed away,' just when th' clock's strucken twelve. That's th' tune for me; it goes wi' a rare swing. That an' 'Christians, awake!' an' 'Wild shepherds'"--I suppose Jim referred to the hymn commencing "While shepherds," but he called it "Wild shepherds"--"is th' only hymn tunes aw can sing, but th' worst on it is, if aw start on 'Christians, awake!' I'm sure to glide into 'Wild shepherds,' an' go on at th' top o' my voice till th' wench nearest to me gi'es me a dig i' th' ribs." "And then what?" I asked. "Aw pom, pom," said Jim, gravely.