“Then, thou’lt let the farm,” said she, still as eagerly as ever.

“Ay, ay, he’ll take it fast enough, I’ve a notion.  But I’ll not drive a bargain with thee just now; it would not be right; we’ll wait a bit.”

“No; I cannot wait; settle it out at once.”

“Well, well; I’ll speak to Will about it.  I see him out yonder.  I’ll step to him and talk it over.”

Accordingly he went and joined the two lads, and, without more ado, began the subject to them.

“Will, thy mother is fain to go live in Manchester, and covets to let the farm.  Now, I’m willing to take it for Tom Higginbotham; but I like to drive a keen bargain, and there would be no fun chaffering with thy mother just now.  Let thee and me buckle to, my lad! and try and cheat each other; it will warm us this cold day.”

“Let the farm!” said both the lads at once, with infinite surprise.  “Go live in Manchester!”

When Samuel Orme found that the plan had never before been named to either Will or Tom, he would have nothing to do with it, he said, until they had spoken to their mother.  Likely she was “dazed” by her husband’s death; he would wait a day or two, and not name it to any one; not to Tom Higginbotham himself, or may be he would set his heart upon it.  The lads had better go in and talk it over with their mother.  He bade them good-day, and left them.

Will looked very gloomy, but he did not speak till they got near the house.  Then he said—­

“Tom, go to th’ shippon, and supper the cows.  I want to speak to mother alone.”

When he entered the house-place, she was sitting before the fire, looking into its embers.  She did not hear him come in:  for some time she had lost her quick perception of outward things.

“Mother! what’s this about going to Manchester?” asked he.

“Oh, lad!” said she, turning round, and speaking in a beseeching tone, “I must go and seek our Lizzie.  I cannot rest here for thinking on her.  Many’s the time I’ve left thy father sleeping in bed, and stole to th’ window, and looked and looked my heart out towards Manchester, till I thought I must just set out and tramp over moor and moss straight away till I got there, and then lift up every downcast face till I came to our Lizzie.  And often, when the south wind was blowing soft among the hollows, I’ve fancied (it could but be fancy, thou knowest) I heard her crying upon me; and I’ve thought the voice came closer and closer, till at last it was sobbing out, ‘Mother!’ close to the door; and I’ve stolen down, and undone the latch before now, and looked out into the still, black night, thinking to see her—­and turned sick and sorrowful when I heard no living sound but the sough of the wind dying away.  Oh, speak not to me of stopping here, when she may be perishing for hunger, like the poor lad in the parable.”  And now she lifted up her voice, and wept aloud.