A hole in one of the rafters, caused by the dropping out of a knot in the wood, enabled Parfitt to see something of what was going on below, and with a sigh of relief he realised that the worst was now over and that the children had effected what he himself could not have done.  When six o’clock came he called to Annie to bring him his tea and light his benzoline lamp.  When she appeared he gave orders that the evening meal should be got ready in the kitchen, and that when it was over she should ask Mary to wash Jimmy and put him to bed.  Anxiously the weaver listened to the carrying out of his instructions, and when he descended the staircase at half-past seven he found the kitchen neatly tidied up and Mary Whittaker seated at the fireside with the two girls on stools at her feet.  Until all the children were in bed he made no attempt to get the girl to tell him her story, but sought by tactful means to win her confidence.  At first she shrank from him and cast anxious eyes towards the inner room where the three children were asleep.  But the weaver’s gentle voice gradually stilled her fears.

“Thou’ll be tired, lass,” he said at length, “and wantin’ to get to bed.  Thou can sleep wi’ Jimmy in yonder anent t’ wall.”

A frightened look came into Mary’s eyes as she answered:  “But that’ll be thy bed.”

“Nay,” replied the weaver, “it’ll be thy bed so lang as thou bides wi’ me.  I’ll mak up a bed for misen i’ t’ kitchen on t’ lang-settle.”

A grateful expression came over the girl’s face, but she made no move in the direction of the inner room.  Silence prevailed for some time until the weaver asked:  “Is there owt I can do for thee, or owt that thou’s gotten to tell me, lass?  It’s been a dree day for thee, to-day; ay, an’ mony a day afore to-day, I reckon.”

This reference to the happenings of the morning brought tears to the girl’s eyes, and it was some time before she could summon up courage to speak.

“Don’t mind me,” she said at last; “I’ll be better to-morn.  But he didn’t ought to hae browt shame on me i’ t’ way he’s done.  It wasn’t my fault mother left him.  I’d allus been a gooid lass to him, choose what fowks say.”

Step by step the weaver led her on to tell him the story of what had led up to the shameful transaction in the market-place.  It was no mere curiosity that moved him, but a realisation that there could be no peace of mind for Mary Whittaker until she had found relief by unburdening her tortured soul.  The weaver’s gentle ways and tactful bearing were slowly winning her heart, and, painful though the recital of her past history was for her, Parfitt knew that it would bring relief.  It was a long story that Mary had to tell.  She had little art of narrative, and her endeavours to shield both her mother and stepfather as far as possible from blame impeded the flow of her words.  Reduced to plain terms, her story ran as follows:—­