It is Saturday afternoon, and Hannah's cottage is all "red up," and Hannah herself is washed and dressed and ready to don herself, and sally forth a-shopping, when the clacking of Ben's loom shall cease in the upper chamber. Lucy still tenants the settle under the window, but it is a stronger, bonnier Lucy than the wan frail Lucy of former days. Deformed she will always be, but some measure of bodily strength has been vouchsafed to her, and the bobbin-wheel by her side, presently to be put by, and a basket of bulky cops, and another of plenished bobbins tell that Lucy is no longer an unwilling divine in that busy hive, but can, with nimble fingers and pliant wrist, do the winding once her mother's care. "Now stand you there, Beauty, and stir a foot if you dare," a voice is heard outside, a pleasant girlish voice; and without knock or ceremony the latch is lifted and a merry face, all smiles and sunshine, roses and dimples, peers in at the half-opened door. "May I come in, and _do_ you mind my fastening Beauty to the door-hasp, he is so restive, and always in a hurry to rush off home," and without waiting for permission the speaker trips into the room and kisses Lucy on both cheeks, and gives Mrs. Garside a hearty hug. "Why, if it isn't Miss Dorothy!" exclaimed the good old dame. "My word, how yo' dun grow, miss, to be sure. Deary me, an' it only seems t' other day aw held yo' i' mi arms an' nussed yo' o' mi lap, an' yo' a wee-bit babbie kickin' an' croonin' an' little dreeamin' o' what yo'd lost upstairs, an' yo'r father awmost off his head wi' grief--deary, deary, how time dun fly, to be sure. But sit yo' daan, nah do." How beautiful, how utterly bewitching and distracting a picture was Dorothy Tinker my art would utterly fail to tell. Image to yourself a lissom maiden of sweet seventeen, just of that happy medium height that reaches to a tall man's heart, and of that rounded proportioning of form, with outline of graceful curve that company with health and exercise; dream of an oval face in which the blush rose dwells, a rounded dimpled chin, violet eyes dancing with mirth, carnation lips and ivory teeth, and the small head crowned with wealth of auburn hair, rippling in waves like a dimpling streamlet;--dream of all this, and still 'tis but a dream, and only eye and ear could tell you how sweet and dainty a maid was Dorothy. Men drew their breath sharp when first they looked on her, and young men ravished and betook themselves to poetry and woeful sighs, and wandering far and lone by moonlit ways. "We don't see much of you now-a-days, Miss Dorothy," said Lucy, smiling fondly at her visitor. "An what mak' o' a gown do yo' ca' that?" said the mother. "Oh! this, Mistress Hannah Garside, wife of Benjamin of that ilk, is my riding-habit and to be respected accordingly. It is, I believe, the only one in Holmfirth. Neat, isn't it?" "Yo' look like a lad i' petticoits. Is it quite decent for a wench?" asked Mrs. Garside, somewhat anxiously.