“Thou sal niver want for a home, lass, so lang as I can addle a bite an’ a sup wi’ my weyvin’.”

“Happen Learoyd will be wantin’ me back agean when he’s gotten ower things a bit.”

“Then he’ll noan get thee,” and the weaver struck his fist on the table with unusual vehemence.  “A wilful man mun have his way, fowks say; an’ I reckon Sam Learoyd has had it; but he’ll noan have it twice ower, if I know owt about justice.”

“But he’s bin sadly tewed wi’ mother leavin’ him an’ all,” replied Mary, “and there’s them fits that he has to contend wi’.  If he wants me I mun go.  There’s nobody left on t’ farm to fend for him.”

“If he cooms here he’ll find t’ door sparred agean him,” exclaimed Parfitt, in his indignation.

Mary shook her head sadly, but made no reply.

They sat awhile in silence, gazing into the dying fire, and then the girl, with a timid “I thank thee for what thou’s done for me,” withdrew to the inner room and cried herself to sleep.  The weaver lit his clay pipe and, bending forwards over the grey ashes of his peat-fire, buried himself in his thoughts till the clock, striking eleven, roused him from his reverie.  He slowly rose, placed a cushion on the settle, and without undressing, flung himself on the hard boards and fell asleep.

Days and weeks passed and Mary Whittaker still remained in the weaver’s cottage.  The cowed look in her eyes passed gradually away, though it would come back whenever a man’s footfall was heard in the street outside, and a cold fear seized her at the thought that Learoyd was at hand to demand her return to the farm.  But he never came, and Mary grew more and more at ease in her new surroundings.  The change from the roomy farmstead, with its wide horizons of moors and woods, to the narrow cottage in the sunless back street was a strange one for her.  She missed, too, the farm work:  the churning of the butter and the feeding of the calves and poultry.  But youth was on her side and she soon learnt to adapt herself to her new life.  Soon after six in the morning she would mount with Parfitt to the upper room and spin the wool, which he would then weave into cloth.  The work was hard, and some of the processes of cleaning the wool were repulsive to her nature at first, but in time she accustomed herself to this as to so much else.  It was easy for her gentle nature to win the hearts of the three children; she quickly learnt the duties of a mother, nursed them in their childish ailments, and when the loom was still, joined with them in their games.  Six months Tom Parfitt waited to see whether Learoyd would make any attempt to recover the stepdaughter whom he had wronged, and then, as the farmer made no move, he quietly married Mary Whittaker at the Primitive Methodist Chapel.

II