"And that's what yo' ca' gooid news, is it, Dorothy? As if aw hadn't enough to do wi' th' house-work and th' cookin', though that's easy enough, God knows, an' me bobbin-windin' to keep Ben agate at th' loom, an' th' little lass theer at might ha' been a help an' a comfort laid o' her back fro' morn to neet an' neet to morn an' all to do for, not but what it's a pleasure to do for yo', my pet, an' it's more aw wish your owd mother could do, an' aw wodn't swap her agen ony lass i' all th' valley; but a noisy lad a rampagin' all abaat th' haase an' whistlin' an' happen stoppin' out o' neets till all hours, an nivver' wipin' his feet except upo' th' fender rails, an' makkin' enough noise to wakken th' deead, an' eitin' enough for two! Not but what th' bit o' brass 'ud be welcome, an' thank yo' kindly. We'll see when th' time comes; its no use meetin' trouble hauf way nor lawpin' afore yo get to th' stee, an' doubtless yo'r aunt 'll be speikin' to me or yar Ben, an' that 'll be time enough, which awm obliged to yo' all th' same, miss, for givin' a thowt o' us an speikin' a gooid word for us, though yo'r aunt knows weel as if aw _did_ ha' a boy aw'd do for 'im as well as here an' theer a one, though aw say it, mebbe, as suldn't." Who can unravel the tangled skein of life and say, as the foolish say, "This is fate," or as the wise, "This the foreordaining of God, the will and fashioning of the great Designer, from the foundation of the world?" But call it Fate or what you will, certain enough it is that the very day after Dorothy's visit to Dame Garside's cottage, Jabez Tinker mounted his stout cob and rode up the road that leads past the Bilberry Reservoir, past the Isle of Skye and far-famed Bill's o' Jack's, past the grey pile of St. Chad's, and so to the Workhouse On the hill. His horse was taken at the gate by Workhouse Jack and Tom Pinder, and led to the stabling in the rear to have a draught of meal-and-water and a feed of oats. Jack and Tom lingered in the stable admiring the gloss of the horse's coat, running fingers through its mane, smacking its warm flanks with many a "Whooa hup" and "Stan' ovver, lass," examining its hocks and its teeth, and generally doing those knowing things affected by the veriest tyro who would be thought wise in the deep and subtle matter of horseflesh. But presently came the Workhouse Porter: "Tom Pinder, th' Master wants you in th' office. No, not you, Jack; you can go into th' potato patch and don't let me catch you here again or you'll know about it." The porter was a much more dignified man and more important in his own esteem than the master himself, so it is just as well he had not eyes at the back of his head to see that sign made by a certain application of thumb and outspanned fingers which in all times and countries has been deemed significant of contempt unutterable.