* * * * *

And now they were standing together in the doorway of the Farmhouse.

In the house behind them, in the mistal and the orchard, in the long marshes of the uplands and on the brooding hills there was stillness and solitude.

Maggie had gone up to her aunt at Bar Hill.  The farm servants were scattered in their villages.

Alice had just told Greatorex of Mary’s engagement and the Vicar’s opposition.

“Eh, I was lookin’ for it,” he said.  “But I maade sure it was your oother sister.”

“So did I, Jim.  So it was.  So it would have been, only—­”

She stopped herself.  She wasn’t going to give Mary away to Jim.

He looked at her.

“Wall, it’s nowt t’ yo, is it?”

“No.  It’s nothing to me—­now.  How did you know I cared for him?”

“I knew because I looved yo.  Because I was always thinkin’ of yo.  Because I watched yo with him.”

“Oh Jim—­would other people know?”

“Naw.  Nat they.  They didn’t look at yo the saame as I did.”

He became thoughtful.

“Wall—­this here sattles it,” he said presently.  “Yo caann’t be laft all aloan in t’ Vicarage.  Yo’ll ’ave t’ marry mae.”

“No,” she said.  “It won’t be like that.  It won’t, really.  If my father won’t let my sister marry Dr. Rowcliffe, you don’t suppose he’ll let me marry you?  It makes it more impossible than ever.  That’s what I came to tell you.”

“It’s naw use yo’re tallin’ mae.  I won’t hear it.”

He bent to her.

“Ally—­d’yo knaw we’re aloan here?”

“Yes, Jim.”

“We’re saafe till Naddy cooms back for t’ milkin’.  We’ve three hours.”

She shook her head.  “Only an hour and a half, Jim.  I must be back for tea.”

“Yo’ll ’ave tae here.  Yo’ve had it before.  I’ll maake it for yo.”

“I daren’t, Jim.  They’ll expect me.  They’ll wonder.”

“Ay, ’tis thot waay always.  Yo’re no sooner coom than yo’ve got to be back for this, thot and toother.  I’m fair sick of it.”

“So am I.”

She sighed.

“Wall then—­yo must end it.”

“How can I end it?”

“Yo knaw how.”

“Oh Jim—­darling—­haven’t I told you?”

“Yo’ve toald mae noothin’ that makes a hap’orth o’ difference to mae.  Yo’ve coom to mae.  Thot’s all I keer for.”

He put his hand on her shoulder and turned her toward the house-place.

“Let me shaw yo t’ house—­now you’ve coom.”

His voice pleaded and persuaded.  In spite of its north-country accent Ally loved his voice.  It sounded musical and mournful, like the voices of the mountain sheep coming from far across the moor and purified by distance.

He took her through the kitchen and the little parlor at the end of the house.

As he looked round it, trying to see it with her eyes, doubt came to him.  But Ally, standing there, looked toward the kitchen.