The same evening Mr. Briarley, having partaken of an early tea and some vigorous advice from his wife, had suddenly, during a lull in the storm, vanished from the domestic circle, possibly called therefrom by the recollection of a previous engagement. Mrs. Briarley had gone out to do her "Sunday shoppin'," the younger children had been put to bed, the older ones were disporting themselves in the streets and by-ways, and consequently Janey was left alone, uncheered save by the presence of Granny Dixon, who had fallen asleep in her chair with her cap unbecomingly disarranged.

Janey sat down upon her stool at a discreet distance from the hearth. She had taken down from its place her last book of "memoirs,"—a volume of a more than usually orthodox and peppery flavor. She held it within range of the light of the fire and began to read in a subdued tone with much unction.

But she had only mastered the interesting circumstance that "James Joseph William was born November 8th," when her attention was called to the fact that wheels had stopped before the gate and she paused to listen.

"Bless us!" she said. "Some un's comin' in."

The person in question was Haworth, who so far dispensed with ceremony as to walk up to the firelight without even knocking at the door, which stood open.

"Where's your father?" he demanded.

"He's takken hissen off to th' beer-house," said Janey, "as he allus does o' Saturday neet,—an' ivvery other neet too, as he gets th' chance."

A chair stood near and Haworth took it.

"I'll sit down and wait for him," he replied.

"Tha'lt ha' to wait a good bit then," said Miss Briarley. "He'll noan be whoam till midneet."

She stood in no awe of her visitor. She had heard him discussed too freely and too often. Of late years she had not unfrequently assisted in the discussions herself. She was familiar with his sins and short-comings and regarded him with due severity.

"He'll noan be whoam till midneet," she repeated as she seated herself on her stool.

But Haworth did not move. He was in a mysterious humor, it was plain. In a minute more his young companion began to stare at him with open eyes. She saw something in his face which bewildered her.

"He's getten more than's good fur him," she was about to decide shrewdly, when he leaned forward and touched her with the handle of the whip he held.

"You're a sharp little lass, I warrant," he said.

Janey regarded him with some impatience. He was flushed and somewhat disheveled and spoke awkwardly.

"You're a sharp little lass, I'll warrant," he said again.

"I ha' to be," she responded, tartly. "Tha'd be sharp thysen if tha had as mich to look after as I ha'."

"I dare say," he answered. "I dare say." Then added even more awkwardly still, "I've heard Murdoch say you were—Murdoch."

The disfavor with which she had examined him began to be mingled with distrust. She hitched her stool a few inches backward.

"Mester Murdoch!" she echoed. "Aye, I know him well enow."

"He comes here every day or so?"

"Aye, him an' me's good friends."

"He's got a good many friends," he said.

"Aye," she answered. "He's a noice chap. Most o' folk tak' to him. Theer's Mr. Ffrench now and her."

"He goes there pretty often?"

"Aye, oftener than he goes any wheer else. They mak' as mich o' him as if he wur a gentleman."

"Did he tell you that?"

"Nay," she answered. "He does na talk mich about it. I've fun it out fro' them as knows."

Then a new idea presented itself to her.

"What does tha want to know fur?" she demanded with unceremonious candor.

He did not tell her why. He gave no notice to her question save by turning away from the fire suddenly and asking her another.

"What does he say about her?"

He spoke in such a manner that she pushed her stool still farther back, and sat staring at him blankly and with some indignation.

"He does na say nowt about her," she exclaimed "What's up wi' thee?"

The next moment she uttered an ejaculation and the book of memoirs fell upon the floor. A flame shot up from the fire and showed her his face. He drew forth his purse and, opening it, took out a coin. The light fell upon that too and showed her what it was.

"Do you see that?" he asked.

"Aye," she answered, "it's a half-sov'rin."

"I'll give it to you," he said, "if you'll tell me what he says and what he does. You're sharp enow to have seen summat, and I'll give it you if you'll tell me."

He did not care what impression he made on her or how he entangled himself. He only thought of one thing.

"Tell me what he says and what he does," he repeated, "and I'll give it to you."

Janey rose from her stool in such a hurry that it lost its balance and fell over.

"I—I dunnot want it!" she cried. "I dunnot want it. I can na mak' thee out!"

"You're not as sharp as I took you for, if you don't want it," he answered. "You'll not earn another as easy, my lass."

Only stern common sense rescued her from the weakness of backing out of the room into the next apartment.

"I dunnot know what tha'rt drivin' at," she said. "I tell thee—I dunnot know nowt."

"Does he never say," he put it to her, "that he's been there—and that he's seen her—and that she's sat and talked—and that he's looked at her—and listened—and thought over it afterward?"

This was the last straw. Bewilderment turned to contempt.

"That would na be worth ten shillin'," she said. "Tha knows he's been theer, an' tha knows he's seen her, an' tha knows he could na see her wi'out lookin' at her. I dunnot see as theer's owt i' lookin' at her, or i' listenin' neyther. Wheer's th' use o' givin ten shillin' to hear summat yo' know yo'rsen? There's nowt i' that!"

"Has he ever said it?" he persisted.

"No," she answered, "he has na. He nivver wur much give ter talk, an' he says less than ivver i' these days."

"Has he never said that she treated him well, and—was easier to please than he'd thought; has he never said nowt like that?"

"Nay, that he has na!" with vigor. "Nowt o' th' soart."

He got up as unceremoniously and abruptly as he had sat down.

"I was an accursed fool for coming," she heard him mutter.

He threw the half-sovereign toward her, and it fell on the floor.

"Art tha goin' to gi' it me?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered, and he strode through the door-way into the darkness, leaving her staring at it.

She went to the fire and, bending down, examined it closely and rubbed it with a corner of her apron. Then she tried its ring upon the flagged floor.

"Aye," she said, "it's a good un, sure enow! It's a good un!"

She had quite lost her breath. She sat down upon her stool again, forgetting the memoirs altogether.

"I nivver heard so mich doment made over nowt i' aw my days," she said. "I conna see now what he wur up to, axin' questions as if he wur i' drink. He mun ha' been i' drink or he'd nivver ha' gi'en it to me."

And on the mother's return she explained the affair to her upon this sound and common-sense basis.

"Mester Haworth's been here," she said, "an' he wur i' drink an' give me ten shillin'. I could na mak' out what he wur drivin' at. He wur askin' questions as put me out o' patience. Eh! what foo's men is when they've getten too much."

When he left the house, Haworth sprang into his gig with an oath. Since the morning he had had time to think over things slowly. He had worked himself up into a desperate, headlong mood. His blood burned in his veins, his pulses throbbed. He went home to his dinner, but ate nothing. He drank heavily, and sat at the table wearing such a look that his mother was stricken with wonder.

"I'm out o' humor, old lady," he said to her. "Stick to your dinner, and don't mind me. A chap with a place like mine on his mind can't always be up to the mark."

"If you ain't ill, Jem," she said, "it don't matter your not talkin'. You mustn't think o' me, my dear! I'm used to havin' lived alone so long."

After dinner he went out again, but before he left the room he went to her and kissed her.

"There's nowt wrong wi' me," he said. "You've no need to trouble yourself about that. I'm right enow, never fear."

"There's nothin' else could trouble me," she said, "nothin', so long as you're well an' happy."

"There's nowt to go agen me bein' happy," he said, a little grimly. "Not yet, as I know on. I don't let things go agen me easy."

About half an hour later, he stood in the road before his partner's house. The night was warm, and the windows of the drawing-room were thrown open. He stood and looked up at them for a minute and then spoke aloud.

"Aye," he said, "he's there, by George!"

He could see inside plainly, and the things he saw best were Rachel Ffrench and Murdoch. Ffrench himself sat in a large chair, reading. Miss Ffrench stood upon the hearth. She rested an arm upon the low mantel, and talked to Murdoch, who stood opposite to her. The man who watched uttered an oath at the sight of her.

"Him!" he said. "Him—damn him!" and grew hot and cold by turns.

He kept his stand for full ten minutes, and then crossed the road.

The servant who answered his summons at the door regarded him with amazement.

"I know they're in," he said, making his way past him. "I saw 'em through the window."

Those in the drawing-room heard his heavy feet as he mounted the staircase. It is possible that each recognized the sound. Ffrench rose hurriedly, and, it must be owned, with some slight trepidation. Rachel merely turned her face toward the door. She did not change her position otherwise at all. Murdoch did not move.

"My dear fellow," said Ffrench, with misplaced enthusiasm. "I am glad to see you."

But Haworth passed him over with a nod. His eyes were fixed on Murdoch. He gave him a nod also and spoke to him.

"What, you're here, are you?" he said. "That's a good thing."

"We think so," said Mr. Ffrench, with fresh fervor. "My dear fellow, sit down."

He took the chair offered him, but still looked at Murdoch and spoke to him.

"I've been to Briarley's," he said. "I've had a talk with that little lass of his. She gave me the notion you'd be here. She's a sharp little un, by George!"

"They're all sharp," said Mr. Ffrench. "The precocity one finds in these manufacturing towns is something astonishing—astonishing."

He launched at once into a dissertation upon the causes of precocity in a manufacturing town, and became so absorbed in his theme that it mattered very little that Haworth paid no attention to him. He was leaning back in his chair with his hands in his pockets, not moving his eyes from Murdoch.

Mr. Ffrench was in the middle of his dissertation when, half an hour afterward, Haworth got up without ceremony. Murdoch was going.

"I'll go with you," he said to him.

They went out of the room and down the staircase together without speaking. They did not even look at each other.

When they were fairly out of the room Mr. Ffrench glanced somewhat uneasily at his daughter.

"Really," he said, "he is not always a pleasant fellow to deal with. One is never sure of reaching him." And then, as he received no answer, he returned in some embarrassment to his book.