“An’ you t’ ha’ to go into court, and own you’re akin t’ her,” said the old man.  “Why, they’ll cast it up to the little un, as isn’t four ’ear old, some day—­they’ll cast it up t’ her as she’d a cousin tried at the ’sizes for murder.”

“It’ll be their own wickedness, then,” said Mrs. Poyser, with a sob in her voice.  “But there’s One above ‘ull take care o’ the innicent child, else it’s but little truth they tell us at church.  It’ll be harder nor ever to die an’ leave the little uns, an’ nobody to be a mother to ’em.”

“We’d better ha’ sent for Dinah, if we’d known where she is,” said Mr. Poyser; “but Adam said she’d left no direction where she’d be at Leeds.”

“Why, she’d be wi’ that woman as was a friend t’ her Aunt Judith,” said Mrs. Poyser, comforted a little by this suggestion of her husbands.  “I’ve often heard Dinah talk of her, but I can’t remember what name she called her by.  But there’s Seth Bede; he’s like enough to know, for she’s a preaching woman as the Methodists think a deal on.”

“I’ll send to Seth,” said Mr. Poyser.  “I’ll send Alick to tell him to come, or else to send up word o’ the woman’s name, an’ thee canst write a letter ready to send off to Treddles’on as soon as we can make out a direction.”

“It’s poor work writing letters when you want folks to come to you i’ trouble,” said Mrs. Poyser.  “Happen it’ll be ever so long on the road, an’ never reach her at last.”

Before Alick arrived with the message, Lisbeth’s thoughts too had already flown to Dinah, and she had said to Seth, “Eh, there’s no comfort for us i’ this world any more, wi’out thee couldst get Dinah Morris to come to us, as she did when my old man died.  I’d like her to come in an’ take me by th’ hand again, an’ talk to me.  She’d tell me the rights on’t, belike—­she’d happen know some good i’ all this trouble an’ heart-break comin’ upo’ that poor lad, as ne’er done a bit o’ wrong in’s life, but war better nor anybody else’s son, pick the country round.  Eh, my lad...Adam, my poor lad!”

“Thee wouldstna like me to leave thee, to go and fetch Dinah?” said Seth, as his mother sobbed and rocked herself to and fro.

“Fetch her?” said Lisbeth, looking up and pausing from her grief, like a crying child who hears some promise of consolation.  “Why, what place is’t she’s at, do they say?”

“It’s a good way off, mother—­Leeds, a big town.  But I could be back in three days, if thee couldst spare me.”

“Nay, nay, I canna spare thee.  Thee must go an’ see thy brother, an’ bring me word what he’s a-doin’.  Mester Irwine said he’d come an’ tell me, but I canna make out so well what it means when he tells me.  Thee must go thysen, sin’ Adam wonna let me go to him.  Write a letter to Dinah canstna?  Thee’t fond enough o’ writin’ when nobody wants thee.”

“I’m not sure where she’d be i’ that big town,” said Seth.  “If I’d gone myself, I could ha’ found out by asking the members o’ the Society.  But perhaps if I put Sarah Williamson, Methodist preacher, Leeds, o’ th’ outside, it might get to her; for most like she’d be wi’ Sarah Williamson.”