Her voice trembled as if with some physical pain; he only answered by a sound of incredulous surprise.

‘I’ll tell ye the whole on’t, Johnnie.  Ye sees, we lived i’ Yarm—­mother and me.  Mother, she sewed books fur a book-binding man; an’ we’d a little coming in as father’d saved.  Well, mother, she was feared lest I’d fall into rough ways like, an’ she kep’ me in a good bit, an’ there was a man as helped i’ the book-binding——­’ she stopped, and then said half under her breath—­

‘His name was Dan’el, Dan’el McGair, it was.’

‘Go on, Jen.’

’He was a leaen man and white to look at.  He was very pious, and knowed lots o’ things.  Least, I don’t know if he was pious, fur he didn’t go to church, but he’d his own thoughts o’ things, an’ he was steady, an’ kep’ himself to himself.  He niver telled me his thoughts o’ things—­he said it ‘ud unsettle me like—­but he taught me reading; an’ mother, she liked his coming constant to see us.  As fur as I knows, he was a good man; but I tell ye, Johnnie, that man had a will—­whatsoever thing Dan’el McGair wanted, that thing he mun have, if he died i’ the getting.  He was about forty, an’ I was nigh on twenty; it was after he’d taught me reading, an’ whenever I’d go out here or there, or do this or that he didn’t like, he’d turn as white as snow, an’ tremble like a tree-stem i’ the wind, an’ dare me to do anything as he didn’t like.  Ye sees he allus had that power over mother to make her think like him, but I wouldn’t give in to him.  If I’d gived in—­well, I doaent know what ’ud ’a comed.  God knows what did come were bad enow.’  She stopped speaking and toed the damp ground—­crushing her boot into the frosty mud and drawing it backwards and forwards as she stood against the gate.

‘Go on, Jen.’

‘Ye sees, what he willed to get, that he mun have, an’ at the end he willed to have me—­mind, body, an’ soael.  He’d ’a had me, only I made a stand fur my life.  Mother, she was all on his side, only she didn’t want fur me to do what I wouldn’t; but she cried like, an’ talked o’ his goodness—­an’ Dan’el, he wouldn’t ask out an’ out, or I could ’a told him my mind an’ ‘a done wi’ it; but he went on giving us, an’ paying things, an’ mother she took it all, till I was fairly mad wi’ the shame an’ anger on’t.  I doaent say as I acted as I ought; I knowed I’d a power over him to drive him wild like wi’ a smile or a soft word, an’ power’s awful dangerous fur a young thing—­it’s like as if God gave the wind a will o’ its own, an’ didn’t howd it in His own hand.  Then I was feared o’ Dan’el’s power over mother, an’ give in times when I ought to ’a held my own.  An’ I liked to have him fur a sarvint to me, an’ I led him on like.  So it went on—­he niver doubted I’d marry wi’ him, an’ I held out fur my life.  Then at th’ end, some words we had made things worse.  ’Twas i’ spring—­i’ March I think—­he walked out miles an’ miles on the bad roads to bring me the first flowers.