At all times, early--terribly early--marriages are the rule in Lancashire; but in those halcyon years of plenty and golden prosperity preceding the American Civil War, they had been more numerous than ever. After supper Edmund, stretching out his arms, said in a muffled kind of voice, ‘Eh, I say, it is some and hot here. I wonder what it’s like outside.’ ‘Why, the air’s pleasant enough on the Townfield,’ said Harry. ‘I could like to feel it,’ remarked Edmund. ‘I’ve not been out these three days.’ ‘Well, come along and take a turn,’ said Myles, good-naturedly, well knowing that Edmund’s motive for suggesting such a thing at that time was that the dusk was rapidly gathering: there were fewer people about, and he was less likely to be observed. Edmund jumped at the offer, and Myles, giving him his cap, and taking his own, drew his brother’s arm through his, shouting to Harry, ‘Wilt come with us, or wilt stay with Molly?’ ‘I’st stay and have a pipe till you come in, if Mary’s no objection,’ said Harry; and Mary, by way of answer, pointed to a china basket on the mantelpiece, in which stood half a dozen neatly made ‘spills.’ These spills were a mystery to the household. Mary gave it out that she liked to have them. They looked tidy like, and did for lighting the pipes; but it was a well-known fact that Edmund did not smoke at all, that Myles preferred to light his pipe with a coal or a match, and that the only visitor who enjoyed the privilege of smoking in that kitchen was Harry Ashworth. Yet no one ever suggested that the lighters were kept in stock for Harry’s benefit, though Edmund had been perilously near doing so once or twice. Had he or any one else uttered that theory, it is impossible to imagine what Mary would have said--possibly nothing at all, for she was, in practice at least, a strong upholder of the theory that ‘silence is golden.’ The two brothers went out, leaving the door open, and a waft of the somewhat cooler outside air penetrated to the kitchen. The gas was not lighted; the fire had burnt low; the room was almost dark. Mary could no longer see to work, and sat, with her head thrown a little backwards, in the high-backed, red-cushioned rocking-chair. The clock ticked: everything was very still. It was Harry who spoke first, in his soft voice. ‘Warm and close, this here weather, Mary.’ ‘Ay,’ said Mary, ‘’tis.’ ‘How does Ned get on?’ he asked; for though she did not speak very loudly, she spoke deliberately, and he appeared to hear her easily. ‘He feels th’ heat aboon a bit,’ replied Mary. ‘Ay! I dare say.’ A pause, while Harry puffed away at his pipe, and Mary offered no further observations on men or things. ‘I took a long walk o’ Sunday--yesterday,’ observed Harry at last. ‘Did you? Where to?’ ‘Reet o’er th’ moors to th’ top o’ Blackrigg.’ ‘It’s to’ far. Thou’rt none strong eno’ for sich like walks.’