But even patience has its limits, and Sally Cooper strained the cable until it snapped. At a war of words Bess was no match for her antagonist: and, rather than endure a second contest, the Cleggs left the fiery serpent behind, and quitted the yard. Not willingly, for Simon, contrary to the roving habits of ordinary weekly tenants, had not changed his abode since his wedding-day, and the river was as a friend to him. He declared he “could na sleep o’ neets without th’ wayter singin’ to him.” However, he connived to find a very similar tenement, in just such another _cul-de-sac_, with just such another tripe-dresser’s cellar underneath, and that, too, without quitting Long Millgate. Midway between the college and the tannery this court was situated, its narrow mouth opening to the breezes wafting down Hanover Street: they could still look out on the verdure of Walker’s Croft, and the Irk laved its stony base as at that same Skinner’s Yard, which Simon lived to see demolished. It was May; bright, sunny, perfumed May. The hawthorn hedges on the ridge of the croft were white with scented blossoms, and the Irk—not the muddled stream which improvement (?) is fast shutting out of remembrance—went on its dimpled way, smiling at the promise of the season. The echoes of the May-day milkcart bells, and the flutter of their decorative ribbons, were dying out of all but infantile remembrance;—the month was more than a fortnight old. It was 1802, and Jabez was almost three years old. He was running, or rather scrambling, about the uneven court, gathering strength of limb and lung from their free use, albeit at the cost of dirt on frock and face, and the trouble of washing for Bess. She was singing at her batting-frame—not an unusual thing now, for rumour had whispered in her ear that the Lancashire Volunteers were on their homeward march. Even as she sang, a stout young fellow in uniform stopped at the narrow entrance of the court, and questioned two or three gossiping women, who, with arms akimbo, blocked up the passage, if they knew the whereabouts of Simon Clegg, the tanner, and his daughter Bess. “What! th’ wench as has the love-choilt?” answered one of the women. “The girl I mean had no child when I saw her last,” responded he, between his set teeth. “Happen that’s some toime sin’, mester, or it’s not th’ same lass. That’s her singin’ like a throstle o’er her work at the oppen winder.” “And that’s her choilt,” said another, ending by a lusty call, “Jabez, lad, coom hither!” Jabez, taught to obey his elders, came at a trot, in answer to the woman’s call. The volunteer looked down upon him. The child had neither Bess’s eyes nor Bess’s features; but he heard the voice of Bess, and over the woman’s shoulder he caught a glimpse of her face at the distant window. It _was_ Bess, sure enough!