And this is what Dorothy saw: a young Hercules, stripped, save his vest, to the belted waist, his heels together, his toes out-turned, his knees braced, his breast expanded, his chin in air, and in his outstretched brawny arms whirled about his head a mighty pair of clubs--"it's a windmill," whispered Dorothy--"Oh! but he's a proper man." "As ever yo'd see in a day's walk," chuckled Hannah,--"more o' a Samson nor a saint, accordin' to my readin' o' th' Scriptur's,--but ther's neer a Dalilah o' 'em all 'll ha' to cut Tom's hair for 'im, trust owd Hannah for that." "H'm, that's as may be," said Dorothy in the maturity of wisdom, finished and formed at a select academy, and, turning to take her leave of Lucy. "I must run away now, dear Lucy; 't will never do to let your handsome lover catch me in this fright of a gown. I'll come again some day when you're likely to be by yourself. And, Lucy, dear, I daresay he isn't at all a paragon. There, now, and don't blush any more, or you'll be struck so." Now although from this time forth Dorothy Tinker made more than one occasion to visit her sick friend, popping in at uncertain times of the day, as Mrs. Garside said, "promis'us-like" it was not till nigh up upon Christmas time, that she ever had speech with Tom. And this is how that came to pass. One day, a week or so before Yule-tide, when the snow lay heavy upon all the hills, no other than Workhouse Jack presented himself in Wilberlee mill yard, looking very like a middle-aged, beardless, lean and hungry image of Father Christmas. He was met in the yard by Sam Buckley. "We don't want no hands: we're puttin' no fresh 'uns on this side Easter, so off yo' pack abaat yo'r business." "Be yo' Mr. Tinker, sir?" said Jack. "Nooah," answered Sam, somewhat mollified by the implied compliment; "nooah, what do you want?" "Isn't this th' spot at Tom Pinder works at?" asked Jack. "Aye, if yo' ca' it workin'; some folk 'ud ca' it lakin'. What does ta want to kno' for? no good awm sure." "Well, aw'n getten a letter for him." "A letter! Who's it fro'?" "Aw reckon th' letter tell that for itsen." "Well, hand it here, aw'll see he gets it." "It's varry partickler, yo' see," demurred Jack. "It's fro' a woman, an' oo' telled me at aw wor to 'liver it to nob'dy but Tom hissen, an' 'oo's a woman 'at generally has her own way i' our parts." "Well, yo' can oather gi' it to me or wait outside th' gate till he comes aat. Yo'll nooan see Pinder afore th' mills lose." "Tha'rt a liar; aw see 'im nah. Hey Tom lad, aw want thee!" and Jack adroitly dodged past the protesting slubber and ran up to Tom. Buckley deemed discretion the better part of valour and took himself off.