‘Ay, ay, my good chap, but you’ll have to eat humble-pie sooner or later--and why not sooner?’ Evidently, the characters of Myles and his easy-going old friend were fundamentally unlike. Meantime Myles, breathing rather more freely, and with a faint return of colour to his cheek, took his way home, feeling that now, if he met Sebastian Mallory, he could look him in the face as defiantly as he chose. There was something almost exquisite in the sense that, though only a few pounds stood between him and destitution, yet he was no longer in any way dependent upon Mallory. Arrived at home, he found the kitchen empty; the dinner half ready (not such an abundant dinner, even now, as it once had been), the table spread. He sat down moodily, and waited; and presently Mary came down looking very sad indeed. She had not been crying, but there was something in her eyes speaking of a grief and fear beyond tears. ‘Well, my lass, where’s Edmund?’ ‘Edmund’s in bed, Myles.’ ‘In bed!’ he echoed, looking up in some surprise; ‘why, what ails him?’ ‘The same thing as has been ailin’ him this six-week. I dunnot know what it may be. Th’ doctor calls it low fever.’ ‘The doctor!’ he echoed again, more astonished still. ‘What’s the meaning of this, Molly?’ ‘Eh, Myles, if thou’d none been so wrapped up in summat all this time, thou might ha’ seen as the lad were fair pinin’ away.’ She could hardly finish her words, but sat down upon the rocking-chair, and covered her face with her hands for a moment, while he looked at her with a haggard gaze. A hundred trifles came into his mind now, crowding quickly forward--Mary’s pre-occupation--Edmund’s passive silence and flushed face--and he had never seen it. Brute that he was! ‘And to-day he’s that weak, he can’t sit up no longer,’ continued Mary, raising her face from her hands and looking sadly before her; ‘and I’m sore fleyed he’ll ne’er be strong again, that I am.’ Then she rose, and began to finish the few preparations for dinner, though, sooth to say, no two people ever made ready for a meal with less appetite. She began to talk, as she thought cheerfully. ‘When I heard Wilson read out as factory would stop o’ Friday, my heart fair sank within me, when I thowt o’ yon lad, and us wi’out a penny to earn, but, eh! I could ha’ cried wi’ joy afore he’d done. Yon Mr. Mallory mun be a reet good-hearted chap, and our Edmund winnot clem now.’ ‘Mary!’ he exclaimed, starting up, and speaking in so strange a voice that she looked at him involuntarily, and saw again the look--the pale face, the scintillating eyes--which had so terrified her an hour before, at the mill-gate. He stepped across the room to her, and grasped her arm. ‘Never thou name such a thing again. I told Wilson to take my name, and thy name, off the books, and to send anybody round here, poking into my affairs, if he dared. I’d die like a dog before I’d take bit or sup from _him_, or let any of those that belonged to me do it.’