“Indeed it would.  How correctly you speak.  Now who has been teaching you?”

“Mrs. Little.”

“Ah!”

“You have a father.  Suppose you left him for a month, and then came back and found him dead and buried—­think of that—­buried!”

“Poor girl!”

“And all this to fall on a poor creature just off a sick-bed, and scarcely right in her head.  When I found poor Mr. Henry was dead, and you at death’s door, I crawled home for comfort, and there I found desolation:  my sister gone across the sea, my father in the churchyard.  I wandered about all night, with my heavy heart and distraught brain, and at last they found me in the river.  They may say I threw myself in, but it is my belief I swooned away and fell in.  I wouldn’t swear, though, for I remember nothing of it.  What does it prove against me?”

“Not much, indeed, by itself.  But they all say you were shut up with him for hours.”

“And that is true; ten hours, every day.  He was at war with these trades, and his own workmen had betrayed him.  He knew I was as strong as a man at some kinds of work—­of course I can’t strike blows, and hurt people like a man—­so he asked me, would I help him grind saws with his machine on the sly—­clandestinely, I mean.  Well, I did, and very easy work it was—­child’s play to me that had wrought on a farm.  He gave me six pounds a week for it.  That’s all the harm we did together; and, as for what we said, let me tell you a first-rate workman, like poor Mr. Henry, works very silently; that is where they beat us women.  I am sure we often ground a dozen saws, and not a word, except upon the business.  When we did talk, it was sure to be about you.  Poor lad, the very last time we wrought together, I mind he said, ’Well done, Jael, that’s good work; it brings me an inch nearer her.’  And I said, All the better, and I’d give him another hour or two every day if he liked.  That very evening I took him his tea at seven o’clock.  He was writing letters; one was to you.  He was just addressing it.  ‘Good-night, Jael,’ said he.  ’You have been a good friend to her and me.’”

“Oh! did he say that?  What became of that letter?”

“Upon my soul, he did; ay, and it was his last word to me in this world.  But you are not of his mind, it seems.  The people in the factory!  I know they used to say we were sweethearts.  You can’t wonder at that; they didn’t know about you, nor any of our secrets; and, of course, vulgar folk like them could not guess the sort of affection I had for poor Mr. Henry; but a lady like you should not go by their lights.  Besides, I was always open with you.  Once I had a different feeling for him:  did I hide it from you?  When I found he loved you, I set to work to cure myself.  I did cure myself before your very eyes; and, after that, you ought to be ashamed of yourself to go and doubt me.  There, now, I have made her cry.”

Her own voice faltered a moment, and she said, with gentle dignity, “Well, I forgive you, for old kindness past; but I shall not sleep under this roof now.  God bless you, and give you many happy days yet with this gentleman you are going to marry.  Farewell.”