‘Did not your father know about it?’ asked Margaret.

’Yes!  And he were sorry.  But our factory were a good one on the whole; and a steady likely set o’ people; and father was afeard of letting me go to a strange place, for though yo’ would na think it now, many a one then used to call me a gradely lass enough.  And I did na like to be reckoned nesh and soft, and Mary’s schooling were to be kept up, mother said, and father he were always liking to buy books, and go to lectures o’ one kind or another—­all which took money—­so I just worked on till I shall ne’er get the whirr out o’ my ears, or the fluff out o’ my throat i’ this world.  That’s all.’

‘How old are you?’ asked Margaret.

‘Nineteen, come July.’

‘And I too am nineteen.’  She thought, more sorrowfully than Bessy did, of the contrast between them.  She could not speak for a moment or two for the emotion she was trying to keep down.

‘About Mary,’ said Bessy.  ‘I wanted to ask yo’ to be a friend to her.  She’s seventeen, but she’s th’ last on us.  And I don’t want her to go to th’ mill, and yet I dunno what she’s fit for.’

’She could not do’—­Margaret glanced unconsciously at the uncleaned corners of the room—­’She could hardly undertake a servant’s place, could she?  We have an old faithful servant, almost a friend, who wants help, but who is very particular; and it would not be right to plague her with giving her any assistance that would really be an annoyance and an irritation.’

’No, I see.  I reckon yo’re right.  Our Mary’s a good wench; but who has she had to teach her what to do about a house?  No mother, and me at the mill till I were good for nothing but scolding her for doing badly what I didn’t know how to do a bit.  But I wish she could ha’ lived wi’ yo’, for all that.’

’But even though she may not be exactly fitted to come and live with us as a servant—­and I don’t know about that—­I will always try and be a friend to her for your sake, Bessy.  And now I must go.  I will come again as soon as I can; but if it should not be to-morrow, or the next day, or even a week or a fortnight hence, don’t think I’ve forgotten you.  I may be busy.’

‘I’ll know yo’ won’t forget me again.  I’ll not mistrust yo’ no more.  But remember, in a week or a fortnight I may be dead and buried!’

‘I’ll come as soon as I can, Bessy,’ said Margaret, squeezing her hand tight.

’But you’ll let me know if you are worse.

‘Ay, that will I,’ said Bessy, returning the pressure.

From that day forwards Mrs. Hale became more and more of a suffering invalid.  It was now drawing near to the anniversary of Edith’s marriage, and looking back upon the year’s accumulated heap of troubles, Margaret wondered how they had been borne.  If she could have anticipated them, how she would have shrunk away and hid herself from the coming time!  And yet day by day had, of itself, and by itself,