’Blast and me moped a good deal, and happen we didn’t behave ourselves over well, for they dropped us and wondered however they’d come to take us up.  I can’t tell how we got through th’ time, while i’ th’ winter I gave up my job and went to Bradford.  Old Jesse were at th’ door o’ th’ house, in a long street o’ little houses.  He’d been sendin’ th’ children ‘way as were clatterin’ their clogs in th’ causeway, for she were asleep.

’"Is it thee?” he says; “but you’re not to see her.  I’ll none have her wakened for a nowt like thee.  She’s goin’ fast, and she mun go in peace.  Thou’lt never be good for naught i’ th’ world, and as long as thou lives thou’ll never play the big fiddle.  Get away, lad, get away!” So he shut the door softly i’ my face.

’Nobody never made Jesse my master, but it seemed to me he was about right, and I went away into the town and knocked up against a recruiting sergeant.  The old tales o’ th’ chapel folk came buzzin’ into my head.  I was to get away, and this were th’ regular road for the likes o’ me.  I ‘listed there and then, took th’ Widow’s shillin’, and had a bunch o’ ribbons pinned i’ my hat.

’But next day I found my way to David Roantree’s door, and Jesse came to open it.  Says he, “Thou’s come back again wi’ th’ devil’s colours flyin’—­thy true colours, as I always telled thee.”

’But I begged and prayed of him to let me see her nobbut to say good-bye, till a woman calls down th’ stairway, “She says John Learoyd’s to come up.”  Th’ old man shifts aside in a flash, and lays his hand on my arm, quite gentle like.  “But thou’lt be quiet, John,” says he, “for she’s rare and weak.  Thou was allus a good lad.”

‘Her eyes were all alive wi’ light, and her hair was thick on the pillow round her, but her cheeks were thin—­thin to frighten a man that’s strong.  “Nay, father, yo mayn’t say th’ devil’s colours.  Them ribbons is pretty.”  An’ she held out her hands for th’ hat, an’ she put all straight as a woman will wi’ ribbons.  “Nay, but what they’re pretty,” she says.  “Eh, but I’d ha’ liked to see thee i’ thy red coat, John, for thou was allus my own lad—­my very own lad, and none else.”

‘She lifted up her arms, and they come round my neck i’ a gentle grip, and they slacked away, and she seemed fainting.  “Now yo’ mun get away, lad,” says Jesse, and I picked up my hat and I came downstairs.

‘Th’ recruiting sergeant were waitin’ for me at th’ corner public-house.  “Yo’ve seen your sweetheart?” says he.  “Yes, I’ve seen her,” says I.  “Well, we’ll have a quart now, and you’ll do your best to forget her,” says he, bein’ one o’ them smart, bustlin’ chaps.  “Ay, sergeant,” says I.  “Forget her.”  And I’ve been forgettin’ her ever since.’

He threw away the wilted clump of white violets as he spoke.  Ortheris suddenly rose to his knees, his rifle at his shoulder, and peered across the valley in the clear afternoon light.  His chin cuddled the stock, and there was a twitching of the muscles of the right cheek as he sighted; Private Stanley Ortheris was engaged on his business.  A speck of white crawled up the watercourse.