“Ay, he’ll come back, I reckon, but he’ll happen come too late! Folk change--there’s no getting past it; we’ve got to face it out! I’ve always thought a deal of Lup. He’s the real thing, all through. Eh! an’ there’s poor Martha losing her lad! It doesn’t bide thinking on. I doubt it’ll just about finish her; there’s lile or nowt to her as it is. It’s her happiness as’ll drive off atween the shafts o’ the cart. Ay, my lass, and it’s your happiness as’ll take the road along wi’ him an’ all! What’s the use o’ schoolin’ an’ such-like if it sets you snirpin’ at the right stuff? I’ve had a good man myself, mannerly and decent, but I’ve had to be the gray mare, as I reckon you know, Michael’s that soft an’ easy led. He leans on me, does Michael, and I’d not have it different, nay, nor him neither; but there’s something better than that for a woman, and you’d have had it from Lup. He’d have been master; he’s strong enough for both an’ more, and you’d have been glad of it, every year. I’m not blaming you. It’s me that’s to blame, being over fond an’ wanting the best for you could be got. You were such a bonny barn an’ that smart, I’d have scraped the roads to get you learned an’ done by like a lady! Ay--_fond_--I was that! But what was to tell your happiness lay just over yon fence, an’ me blinding your eyes to it? I’ve done you a terrible big wrong. I can see that now, right enough. You’ll sorrow for it all your life, if you send him off. You’ve just to say the word, and he’ll bide. Say it, my lass! You’ll be rare an’ glad when it’s done.” The door opened wider very gently, and Michael looked in. “That you, missis? You’re wanted. Francey badly, this morning?” Mrs. Dockeray wiped her eyes hastily and bustled towards him. “Nay, nowt o’ t’ sort! You get along downstairs, an’ the lass’ll follow. You might have given a body a shout, instead of bursting in as if t’ house was afire!” At the door she turned. “You’ve just to say the word!” she urged. But Francey did not say it. * * * * * Denny had begged the honour of driving him to the station, and turned up with the ramper about nine, a small “Jack” at one lamp-bracket, and the “Stars and Stripes” at the other. Lup stayed stolidly on the step until he removed them. The dogs sniffed and whined at the bags as they were lifted into the trap. In the dull light everything took on a deadened effect, utterly dismal and forlorn, from the melancholy house on the edge of the dreary flat to the two worn figures with their set faces and shut hands. At the gate the cowman waited for a last word. Through the window the “girl” peered at the little scene. The dogs leaped at Lup, whimpering and beseeching, refusing to be stilled. Denny’s efforts to lighten the atmosphere did not go far. His flags had not drawn even a smile; his new tale about Brack died on his lips. In the silent trouble before him even his frothing joy in life sank and drowned.