Will was deeply grieved.  He had been old enough to be told the family shame when, more than two years before, his father had had his letter to his daughter returned by her mistress in Manchester, telling him that Lizzie had left her service some time—­and why.  He had sympathized with his father’s stern anger; though he had thought him something hard, it is true, when he had forbidden his weeping, heart-broken wife to go and try to find her poor sinning child, and declared that henceforth they would have no daughter; that she should be as one dead, and her name never more be named at market or at meal time, in blessing or in prayer.  He had held his peace, with compressed lips and contracted brow, when the neighbours had noticed to him how poor Lizzie’s death had aged both his father and his mother; and how they thought the bereaved couple would never hold up their heads again.  He himself had felt as if that one event had made him old before his time; and had envied Tom the tears he had shed over poor, pretty, innocent, dead Lizzie.  He thought about her sometimes, till he ground his teeth together, and could have struck her down in her shame.  His mother had never named her to him until now.

“Mother!” said he, at last.  “She may be dead.  Most likely she is”

“No, Will; she is not dead,” said Mrs. Leigh.  “God will not let her die till I’ve seen her once again.  Thou dost not know how I’ve prayed and prayed just once again to see her sweet face, and tell her I’ve forgiven her, though she’s broken my heart—­she has, Will.”  She could not go on for a minute or two for the choking sobs.  “Thou dost not know that, or thou wouldst not say she could be dead—­for God is very merciful, Will; He is:  He is much more pitiful than man.  I could never ha’ spoken to thy father as I did to Him—­and yet thy father forgave her at last.  The last words he said were that he forgave her.  Thou’lt not be harder than thy father, Will?  Do not try and hinder me going to seek her, for it’s no use.”

Will sat very still for a long time before he spoke.  At last he said, “I’ll not hinder you.  I think she’s dead, but that’s no matter.”

“She’s not dead,” said her mother, with low earnestness.  Will took no notice of the interruption.

“We will all go to Manchester for a twelvemonth, and let the farm to Tom Higginbotham.  I’ll get blacksmith’s work; and Tom can have good schooling for awhile, which he’s always craving for.  At the end of the year you’ll come back, mother, and give over fretting for Lizzie, and think with me that she is dead—­and, to my mind, that would be more comfort than to think of her living;” he dropped his voice as he spoke these last words.  She shook her head but made no answer.  He asked again—­“Will you, mother, agree to this?”

“I’ll agree to it a-this-ns,” said she.  “If I hear and see nought of her for a twelvemonth, me being in Manchester looking out, I’ll just ha’ broken my heart fairly before the year’s ended, and then I shall know neither love nor sorrow for her any more, when I’m at rest in my grave.  I’ll agree to that, Will.”