‘And she’s not getten married, measter?’

‘Not yet.’  The face was cloudy once more.  ’There is some talk of it, as I understand, with a connection of the family.’

‘Then she’ll not be for coming to Milton again, I reckon.’

‘No!’

‘Stop a minute, measter.’  Then going up confidentially close, he said, ‘Is th’ young gentleman cleared?’ He enforced the depth of his intelligence by a wink of the eye, which only made things more mysterious to Mr. Thornton.

‘Th’ young gentleman, I mean—­Master Frederick, they ca’ad him—­her brother as was over here, yo’ known.’

‘Over here.’

‘Ay, to be sure, at th’ missus’s death.  Yo’ need na be feared of my telling; for Mary and me, we knowed it all along, only we held our peace, for we got it through Mary working. in th’ house.’

‘And he was over.  It was her brother!’

‘Sure enough, and I reckoned yo’ knowed it or I’d never ha’ let on.  Yo’ knowed she had a brother?’

’Yes, I know all about him.  And he was over at Mrs. Hale’s death?’

’Nay!  I’m not going for to tell more.  I’ve maybe getten them into mischief already, for they kept it very close.  I nobbut wanted to know if they’d getten him cleared?’

’Not that I know of.  I know nothing.  I only hear of Miss Hale, now, as my landlord, and through her lawyer.’

He broke off from Higgins, to follow the business on which he had been bent when the latter first accosted him; leaving Higgins baffled in his endeavour.

‘It was her brother,’ said Mr. Thornton to himself.  ’I am glad.  I may never see her again; but it is a comfort—­a relief—­to know that much.  I knew she could not be unmaidenly; and yet I yearned for conviction.  Now I am glad!’

It was a little golden thread running through the dark web of his present fortunes; which were growing ever gloomier and more gloomy.  His agent had largely trusted a house in the American trade, which went down, along with several others, just at this time, like a pack of cards, the fall of one compelling other failures.  What were Mr. Thornton’s engagements?  Could he stand?

Night after night he took books and papers into his own private room, and sate up there long after the family were gone to bed.  He thought that no one knew of this occupation of the hours he should have spent in sleep.  One morning, when daylight was stealing in through the crevices of his shutters, and he had never been in bed, and, in hopeless indifference of mind, was thinking that he could do without the hour or two of rest, which was all that he should be able to take before the stir of daily labour began again, the door of his room opened, and his mother stood there, dressed as she had been the day before.  She had never laid herself down to slumber any more than he.  Their eyes met.  Their faces were cold and rigid, and wan, from long watching.

‘Mother! why are not you in bed?’