In her own heart she had never felt love,—­she had never sounded the depths of her own nature;—­she was as yet a stranger to herself.

Amongst others, who were ever ready at her beck and call were two young men,—­both about her own age.—­They are both dead now or this story would not have been written.  We will simply speak of them as Dick and Jack.  One was the overlooker under whom she worked, this was Dick, a prime favourite with the masters, and a clever, honest chap he was.

Jack was known as “Th’ oiler,” his duty being to attend to the long lines of shafting and revolving pullies.  Much of his work, especially the more dangerous part of it, had to be performed whilst the engine was stopped.

Never were known two truer friends than Dick and Jack.  After working hours they were seldom separated.  They worked together in the little allotment garden which they jointly rented.  Even the pig was a partnership concern.  Although they were friendly with all they came in contact with, they never made any other special friendships.  They were satisfied to be with each other and so confidential were they, that they each lived in the other’s life.

Nicknames were common at that day, and Dick was generally spoken of as “True Blue,” because of his unswerving integrity.  Jack had to be content with the less euphonious title “Th’ oiler.”

They were neither of them blind to Susy’s charms, and admiration blended with pity, and pity, where a beautiful woman is concerned, is likely to lead to something else.  They often spoke of her to each other, but it was the only subject on which they ever conversed, that they were not entirely open and honest about.  Dick’s position gave him many opportunities to be near Susy, and it was remarked that her loom seemed to require more attention than any other under his surveillance.

Susy, with that quick instinct which all women seem to be possessed, saw that he was at her mercy.  But she loved her liberty.  She had tasted such bliss as married life could offer,—­so she thought, and she preferred to feel free to smile on whom she pleased.  She was virtuous, and kind, after a fashion, but she was fast becoming a coquet,—­a flirt.  In her little world she was a queen, and the homage of one did not satisfy her.  Hearts were her playthings,—­they amused her, and she liked to be amused.

One day, during the dinner hour;—­she had brought her dinner to the mill, which was her invariable custom, as the house where she lodged was a considerable distance from the works;—­she was sitting in a retired corner in an adjoining room, when looking up she saw Dick standing close by her and regarding her with such a longing, yet troubled look, that although she laughed, and was about to make some flippant remark, she checked herself, and made room on the little bench for him to sit.

“Why, Dick,” she said, as he took his place beside her, “what’s to do?  Has th’ boiler brussen, or are we going on strike?”