Some one had dubbed her ‘the Factory Belle,’ but she never resented what many would have considered insults or slights, but kept on in her own innocent, yet attractive and attentive way, and commanded a certain amount of respect even from those who were secretly her enemies.

No one would for a single moment suspect that she was a widow, for not only was she so young, but looked even younger.  That her husband had worshipped her was not difficult of belief, and that she had been to him a kind, fond wife was indisputable;—­her gratitude for his kindness and his self-sacrifices to secure her happiness had been such, that if she did not love him with the blind infatuation of youth’s fond dream, she respected him, and he was first in her then unawakened affections.

When he was suddenly stricken down with a fell disease which was at that time ravaging many of the towns in the West Riding, she nursed him faithfully, and when he died,—­holding her little white hand in his brown, brawny fist, she shed the bitterest tears that had ever dimmed her beautiful blue grey eyes.

After the last sad rites were over, she had disposed of the household furniture, which was all he had been able to leave her, and paid every claim that was presented, finding herself once more alone, and dependent on her own exertions for a living.

She had plenty of sympathizing friends, and more than one would willingly have provided for her in the hope that at some future time they might win her for themselves, but she was of a very independent spirit and preferred to depend on her own efforts to provide for her wants.

She had no difficulty in obtaining employment at the weaving shed where she had worked before her marriage; and right welcome did her fellow workers make her, and the look of sadness which for a time clouded her face, though it did not detract her from her beauty,—­by degrees cleared off,—­her eyes sparkled as before,—­the bloom came back to her velvet cheeks and her lips curled again into the bewitching smile that suited them so well, and with her added years, were developed charms that she had not possessed before.

Her swelling bust accentuated her tapering waist, and her beautifully rounded arms, her well shaped, small hands,—­her graceful carriage, all combined to produce a perfect specimen of Yorkshire female lovliness.

Where hundreds were employed, it was not to be expected she would lack admirers.  She had many,—­many more than she even imagined.

Though almost faultless in face and figure, yet she was not without some faults.

She knew she was beautiful, and she was vain.  Much of her apparent artlessness was assumed.  She was pleased to be admired, and felt gratified to see the effect of her glance, as she favoured one with a languishing look, and another with a haughty stare, or a wicked, sparkling, mischief loving gleam,—­transient on her part but fatally permanent on susceptible hearts.