“Eh, lad, but thou does take me up so, not giving me a chance to say—­say—­” She sank down distressfully on a chair.

The collapse of Mr. Lawson was amazingly sudden; his erect shoulders fell, his chin lost its lofty altitude; and facing suddenly about, his glasses all awry, he hurried to Mary’s side, and taking her hands from her face began a most treacherous tirade against himself, his master—­yea, and even men in general—­for their shameful treatment of the weaker sex.  Presently his voice grew very low, and then their heads got dangerously close together.  When at last they arose, after an eloquent pause, John’s spectacles were lying forlornly on the floor, his coat-tails once more were hanging in peace and quietness, his arm was around her, and he had the audacity to waggishly inform her that they were the best “condeetions” that he had made in his whole forty-five years of life.

Suddenly remembering her mistress’s troubles, the happy light died out of Mary’s face, and turning anxiously to her now contented lover she said eagerly, “And now, lad, do try and think o’ something to help them.  If nothing else can be done, there is the train; if it is missed there will be so much more time.”

“Nay, lass,” John answered, as he sat down, “the train scheme is no good; for I’m sure the missus would, as she has threatened, leave the house if he didn’t go to-night.”

Picking up his glasses and slowly polishing them, John continued ruminatingly, “Like thee, Mary, I believe her heart’s warm towards him, but it’s her pride, and that can only be broken down by deeply moving her heart.  Sure, sure, lass, there’s no other way.”  He was silent for a brief space and then went on, quietly, speaking to himself, his eyes fixed steadfastly on the carpet.  “And if the boots don’t reach her heart and soften it towards him, there’s nowt in this world that will, sure.”

“Now, John, lad, don’t ramble on like that; I’m right anxious.  Tell me what’s in thy mind,” broke in Mary, restlessly, seating herself on a chair by his side.

“That I will, lass,” answered John, briskly, shaking off his contemplative mood, “for I believe we’ve now got the key to the sitiwation.  Thou remembers,” he went on eagerly, “how, soon after their little lad’s death, the maister ordered that all his toys and clothing should be taken away from the house, as he couldn’t bear to see ’em around?”

“I do, lad, I do, and it went hard wi’ the missus to let ’em go; but she didn’t like to thwart the maister, he wur so restless and morbid.  But it never should have been done, lad; it wer’n’t becoming like.”

“Thou art reet, Mary, it wer’n’t the thing to do; for in getting rid o’ the things nowt wur left to bring tender memories back to ’em o’ him, and so, having no common sorrow, their hearts grew narrow—­as wur to be expected—­and they began to misunderstand each other and drift apart.  Sure as thou lives, Mary, getting rid o’ the little lad’s things wur wheere the mistake came in, in their lives.”