‘No!’ said she, heavily.  ’I’m sick on it.  I could have wished to have had other talk about me in my latter days, than just the clashing and clanging and clattering that has wearied a’ my life long, about work and wages, and masters, and hands, and knobsticks.’

’Poor wench! latter days be farred!  Thou’rt looking a sight better already for a little stir and change.  Beside, I shall be a deal here to make it more lively for thee.’

‘Tobacco-smoke chokes me!’ said she, querulously.

‘Then I’ll never smoke no more i’ th’ house!’ he replied, tenderly.  ’But why didst thou not tell me afore, thou foolish wench?’

She did not speak for a while, and then so low that only Margaret heard her: 

‘I reckon, he’ll want a’ the comfort he can get out o’ either pipe or drink afore he’s done.’

Her father went out of doors, evidently to finish his pipe.

Bessy said passionately,

’Now am not I a fool,—­am I not, Miss?—­there, I knew I ought for to keep father at home, and away fro’ the folk that are always ready for to tempt a man, in time o’ strike, to go drink,—­and there my tongue must needs quarrel with this pipe o’ his’n,—­and he’ll go off, I know he will,—­as often as he wants to smoke—­and nobody knows where it’ll end.  I wish I’d letten myself be choked first.’

‘But does your father drink?’ asked Margaret.

‘No—­not to say drink,’ replied she, still in the same wild excited tone.  ‘But what win ye have?  There are days wi’ you, as wi’ other folk, I suppose, when yo’ get up and go through th’ hours, just longing for a bit of a change—­a bit of a fillip, as it were.  I know I ha’ gone and bought a four-pounder out o’ another baker’s shop to common on such days, just because I sickened at the thought of going on for ever wi’ the same sight in my eyes, and the same sound in my ears, and the same taste i’ my mouth, and the same thought (or no thought, for that matter) in my head, day after day, for ever.  I’ve longed for to be a man to go spreeing, even it were only a tramp to some new place in search o’ work.  And father—­all men—­have it stronger in ’em than me to get tired o’ sameness and work for ever.  And what is ’em to do?  It’s little blame to them if they do go into th’ gin-shop for to make their blood flow quicker, and more lively, and see things they never see at no other time—­pictures, and looking-glass, and such like.  But father never was a drunkard, though maybe, he’s got worse for drink, now and then.  Only yo’ see,’ and now her voice took a mournful, pleading tone, ’at times o’ strike there’s much to knock a man down, for all they start so hopefully; and where’s the comfort to come fro’?  He’ll get angry and mad—­they all do—­and then they get tired out wi’ being angry and mad, and maybe ha’ done things in their passion they’d be glad to forget.  Bless yo’r sweet pitiful face! but yo’ dunnot know what a strike is yet.’