When I cleared Burnplatts it must have been, as I should judge, some four o'clock of the morning. The moon no longer sailed in a clear sky: that was overcast by sombre clouds, big with snow that was yet to fall, and but fitful gleams pierced the gloom. I was in two minds whether to turn my steps towards my father's house at Pole or take the longer road to Wrigley Mill. I was dead beat, and would have been fain to stretch my weary limbs in rest. And my mind was in tune with my body. I wanted time to think over all old Mother Sykes had said. I felt I should have a long story to tell my father, and one, perchance, he would not be overjoyed to hear; and I felt in no mood for the telling of long stories. So with a weary shrug of my shoulders I turned my face towards Stanedge and floundered through the deep snow that, a foot deep and more, covered the rough cart-tracks and shortcuts. I suppose that after a while of steady pounding I must have fallen, as I walked, into a sort of semi-sleep, my legs moving mechanically whilst my mind was wrapped in a dull and senseless stupor. Anyway I had made to this side--I mean the Yorkshire side--of Stanedge Cutting, when, with a start, I realised that I was no longer alone. Ephraim Sykes barred my way and as my senses cleared I became aware Ephraim was in a very ugly mood. He had clearly been drinking, and deeply. His breath on the cold air was like steam, and it was heavy laden with the fumes of brandy. "I'd have a word or two wi' you, Abel Holmes." he said in a thick voice. "There's a score to settle between you an' me, afore yo' go ony further." "Why, it's a queer time and place for talking, Eph.," I remember saying, "I'm just tired to death and want nothing so much as a good sleep. We'd both be best i' bed, don't you think, and you've a tidy step before you on to Burnplatts." "Damn Burnplatts," he cried fiercely. "Burnplatts has noan bin Burnplatts for me sin' first yo' showed your cantin' mug theer. An' that's what I'm getten to talk about. What had th' owd hell-cat to say to thee so private 'at aw mun be turned aat i' to th' cowd at after midneet? What devil's plot are yo' three hatchin' among you? An' what's Miriam to thee, Abel Holmes, aw'm speerin'--aye, that's th' point o' it all. What's Miriam to thee, I want to know?" "Well, it's soon told, Eph., Miriam's tokened to me this many a happy month past. That's what Miriam is to me, lad, and I hope you'll wish me joy, Eph."