"Sithee, Tom," almost gasped Jack in his eagerness, and casting a triumphant glance at the discomfited obstructionist, "sithee, there's a letter for thee. It's fro Betty Schofield at th' Wakey, an' tha's to go back wi me. 'Oo'd ha' put that i't' letter, aw wer to tell thee, but 'oo'd no more ink, an' th' pen gate cross-legged." And Tom read as follows: "Deer Tom, This is to let yew 'no at Mr. Black's bin took vary bad, an's frettin' becos yo' dont com' to see 'im. He's i' bed; wi' a stroke i'th reight side, hopin' you're well which it leaves me, so no more at present from Yours trewly, BETTY SCHOFIELD." Tom's heart smote him. He was conscious that latterly he had been remiss in his visits to his friends beyond the hill. His new life was growing on him, and new interests filling his mind. "Is it serious, do you know, Jack?" he asked. "Moll 'o Stute's says another do 'll finish him. He's had two doctors till 'im, an' Moll says his constitooshun' whativver 'oo meeans bi that, couldn't ha' stooid one, ne'er name two. But yo'll come, Tom, an' Betty says yo'll do him more gooid nor physic." It would have been nothing out of the common for a hand to "jack" his work without saying "by your leave," or "with your leave," but that was not Tom's way. He sought Mr. Tinker in the dingy little office, but he was not there,--he might be in the house, someone suggested; and Tom made for the house, a mere stride, not a stone-throw from the mill-gate. Jack trotted by his side like a faithful dog. "Weel, I declare, if there beeant big Tom Pinder comin' up th' walk, miss," exclaimed Betty, the cook, wiping her hands on her coarse apron, "an' as shallockin' a lookin' felley wi 'im as ivver yo' clapped een on," and a knock at the kitchen door coincided with her wondering "what's to do naah!" Now Dorothy was in the very thick of that daintiest of all household doings the making of pastry for the Christmas fare. She was garbed in a pretty print dress, and a white bib and apron, spotlessly clean, became her vastly. Her small and shapely hands were cunningly turning the well-greased tins, and shaping the dough within and above a noble array of large and portly tins crammed with the makings of pork-pies and jimping the edges of lesser tins designed for the mince-meat that, not innocent of the flavour of brandy, scented the warm kitchen air. The sleeves of her dress were rolled up and gave play to as white and rounded an arm, with a dainty dimple at the elbow, as ever delighted the eyes of man. Her cheek was flushed either with the heat of the roaring fire or confusion at being so discovered by eyes whose sudden glance, quick withdrawn, betrayed a startled admiration more speakingly than speech. "I beg your pardon, Miss, but is Mr. Tinker at home? He isn't in the office, nor about the mill," said Tom, whilst Jack alternate gaped and sniffed.