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Chapter: VI.    POVERTY AND DEATH.

     "How little can the rich man know
        Of what the poor man feels,
      When Want, like some dark demon foe,
        Nearer and nearer steals!

     "HE never tramp'd the weary round,
        A stroke of work to gain,
      And sicken'd at the dreaded sound
        Which tells he seeks in vain.

     "Foot-sore, heart-sore, HE never came
        Back through the winter's wind,
      To a dank cellar, there no flame,
        No light, no food, to find.

     "HE never saw his darlings lie
        Shivering, the flags their bed
      HE never heard that maddening cry,
        'Daddy, a bit of bread!'"
                            --MANCHESTER SONG.

John Barton was not far wrong in his idea that the Messrs. Carson
would not be over-much grieved for the consequences of the fire in
their mill.  They were well insured; the machinery lacked the
improvements of late years, and worked but poorly in comparison with
that which might now be procured.  Above all, trade was very slack;
cottons could find no market, and goods lay packed and piled in many
a warehouse.  The mills were merely worked to keep the machinery,
human and metal, in some kind of order and readiness for better
times.  So this was an excellent opportunity, Messrs. Carson
thought, for refitting their factory with first-rate improvements,
for which the insurance money would amply pay.  They were in no
hurry about the business, however.  The weekly drain of wages given
for labour, useless in the present state of the market, was stopped.
The partners had more leisure than they had known for years; and
promised wives and daughters all manner of pleasant excursions, as
soon as the weather should become more genial.  It was a pleasant
thing to be able to lounge over breakfast with a review or newspaper
in hand; to have time for becoming acquainted with agreeable and
accomplished daughters, on whose education no money had been spared,
but whose fathers, shut up during a long day with calicoes and
accounts, had so seldom had leisure to enjoy their daughters'
talents.  There were happy family evenings, now that the men of
business had time for domestic enjoyments.  There is another side to
the picture.  There were homes over which Carsons' fire threw a
deep, terrible gloom; the homes of those who would fain work, and no
man gave unto them--the homes of those to whom leisure was a curse.
There, the family music was hungry wails, when week after week
passed by, and there was no work to be had, and consequently no
wages to pay for the bread the children cried aloud for in their
young impatience of suffering.  There was no breakfast to lounge
over; their lounge was taken in bed, to try and keep warmth in them
that bitter March weather, and, by being quiet, to deaden the
gnawing wolf within.  Many a penny that would have gone little way
enough in oatmeal or potatoes, bought opium to still the hungry
little ones, and make them forget their uneasiness in heavy troubled
sleep.  It was mother's mercy.  The evil and the good of our nature
came out strongly then.  There were desperate fathers; there were
bitter-tongued mothers (O God! what wonder!); there were reckless
children; the very closest bonds of nature were snapt in that time
of trial and distress.  There was Faith such as the rich can never
imagine on earth; there was "Love strong as death"; and self-denial,
among rude, coarse men, akin to that of Sir Philip Sidney's most
glorious deed.  The vices of the poor sometimes astound us HERE; but
when the secrets of all hearts shall be made known, their virtues
will astound us in far greater degree.  Of this I am certain.

As the cold, bleak spring came on (spring, in name alone), and
consequently as trade continued dead, other mills shortened hours,
turned off hands, and finally stopped work altogether.

Barton worked short hours.  Wilson, of course, being a hand in
Carsons' factory, had no work at all.  But his son, working at an
engineer's, and a steady man, obtained wages enough to maintain all
the family in a careful way.  Still it preyed on Wilson's mind to be
so long indebted to his son.  He was out of spirits, and depressed.
Barton was morose, and soured towards mankind as a body, and the
rich in particular.  One evening, when the clear light at six
o'clock contrasted strangely with the Christmas cold, and when the
bitter wind piped down every entry, and through every cranny, Barton
sat brooding over his stinted fire, and listening for Mary's step,
in unacknowledged trust that her presence would cheer him.  The door
was opened, and Wilson came breathless in.

"You've not got a bit o' money by you, Barton?" asked he.

"Not I; who has now, I'd like to know.  Whatten you want it for?"

"I donnot* want it for mysel', tho' we've none to spare.  But don ye
know Ben Davenport as worked at Carsons?  He's down wi' the fever,
and ne'er a stick o' fire nor a cowd** potato in the house."

     *"Don" is constantly used in Lancashire for "do"; as it was
      by our older writers.
       "And that may non Hors DON."--SIR J. MANDEVILLE.
       "But for th' entent to DON this sinne."--CHAUCER.
    **Cowd; cold.  Teut., kaud.  Dutch, koud.

"I han got no money, I tell ye," said Barton.  Wilson looked
disappointed.  Barton tried not to be interested, but he could not
help it in spite of his gruffness.  He rose, and went to the
cupboard (his wife's pride long ago).  There lay the remains of his
dinner, hastily put by ready for supper.  Bread, and a slice of cold
fat boiled bacon.  He wrapped them in his handkerchief, put them in
the crown of his hat, and said, "Come, let us be going."

"Going--art thou going to work this time o' day?"

"No, stupid, to be sure not.  Going to see the chap thou spoke on."
So they put on their hats and set out.  On the way Wilson said
Davenport was a good fellow, though too much of the Methodee; that
his children were too young to work, but not too young to be cold
and hungry; that they had sunk lower and lower, and pawned thing
after thing, and that they now lived in a cellar in Berry Street,
off Store Street.  Barton growled inarticulate words of no
benevolent import to a large class of mankind, and so they went
along till they arrived in Berry Street.  It was unpaved: and down
the middle a gutter forced its way, every now and then forming pools
in the holes with which the street abounded.  Never was the old
Edinburgh cry of Gardez l'eau! more necessary than in this street.
As they passed, women from their doors tossed household slops of
EVERY description into the gutter; they ran into the next pool,
which overflowed and stagnated.  Heaps of ashes were the
stepping-stones, on which the passer-by, who cared in the least for
cleanliness, took care not to put his foot.  Our friends were not
dainty, but even they picked their way, till they got to some steps
leading down to a small area, where a person standing would have his
head about one foot below the level of the street, and might at the
same time, without the least motion of his body, touch the window of
the cellar and the damp muddy wall right opposite.  You went down
one step even from the foul area into the cellar in which a family
of human beings lived.  It was very dark inside.  The window-panes,
many of them, were broken and stuffed with rags, which was reason
enough for the dusky light that pervaded the place even at midday.
After the account I have given of the state of the street, no one
can be surprised that on going into the cellar inhabited by
Davenport, the smell was so foetid as almost to knock the two men
down.  Quickly recovering themselves, as those inured to such things
do, they began to penetrate the thick darkness of the place, and to
see three or four little children rolling on the damp, nay wet brick
floor, through which the stagnant, filthy moisture of the street
oozed up; the fire-place was empty and black; the wife sat on her
husband's lair, and cried in the dark loneliness.

"See, missis, I'm back again.--Hold your noise, children, and don't
mither* your mammy for bread; here's a chap as has got some for
you."

     *Mither; to trouble and perplex.
       "I'm welly mithered"--I'm well-nigh crazed.

In that dim light, which was darkness to strangers, they clustered
round Barton, and tore from him the food he had brought with him.
It was a large hunch of bread, but it vanished in an instant.

"We mun do summut for 'em," said he to Wilson.  "Yo stop here, and
I'll be back in half-an-hour."

So he strode, and ran, and hurried home.  He emptied into the
ever-useful pocket-handkerchief the little meal remaining in the
mug.  Mary would have her tea at Miss Simmonds'; her food for the
day was safe.  Then he went upstairs for his better coat, and his
one, gay red-and-yellow silk pocket-handkerchief--his jewels, his
plate, his valuables, these were.  He went to the pawn-shop; he
pawned them for five shillings; he stopped not, nor stayed, till he
was once more in London Road, within five minutes' walk of Berry
Street--then he loitered in his gait, in order to discover the shops
he wanted.  He bought meat, and a loaf of bread, candles, chips, and
from a little retail yard he purchased a couple of hundredweights of
coal.  Some money still remained--all destined for them, but he did
not yet know how best to spend it.  Food, light, and warmth, he had
instantly seen were necessary; for luxuries he would wait.  Wilson's
eyes filled with tears when he saw Barton enter with his purchases.
He understood it all, and longed to be once more in work that he
might help in some of these material ways, without feeling that he
was using his son's money.  But though "silver and gold he had
none," he gave heart-service and love--works of far more value.  Nor
was John Barton behind in these.  "The fever" was (as it usually is
in Manchester) of a low, putrid, typhoid kind; brought on by
miserable living, filthy neighbourhood, and great depression of mind
and body.  It is virulent, malignant, and highly infectious.  But
the poor are fatalists with regard to infection! and well for them
it is so, for in their crowded dwellings no invalid can be isolated.
Wilson asked Barton if he thought he should catch it, and was
laughed at for his idea.

The two men, rough, tender nurses as they were, lighted the fire,
which smoked and puffed into the room as if it did not know the way
up the damp, unused chimney.  The very smoke seemed purifying and
healthy in the thick clammy air.  The children clamoured again for
bread; but this time Barton took a piece first to the poor,
helpless, hopeless woman, who still sat by the side of her husband,
listening to his anxious miserable mutterings.  She took the bread,
when it was put into her hand, and broke a bit, but could not eat.
She was past hunger.  She fell down on the floor with a heavy
unresisting bang.  The men looked puzzled.  "She's wellnigh
clemmed," said Barton.  "Folk do say one mustn't give clemmed people
much to eat; but, bless us, she'll eat nought."

"I'll tell yo what I'll do," said Wilson.  "I'll take these two big
lads, as does nought but fight, home to my missis for tonight, and
I'll get a jug o' tea.  Them women always does best with tea, and
such-like slop."

So Barton was now left alone with a little child, crying (when it
had done eating) for mammy; with a fainting, dead-like woman; and
with the sick man, whose mutterings were rising up to screams and
shrieks of agonised anxiety.  He carried the woman to the fire, and
chafed her hands.  He looked around for something to raise her head.
There was literally nothing but some loose bricks.  However, those
he got; and taking off his coat he covered them with it as well as
he could.  He pulled her feet to the fire, which now began to emit
some faint heat.  He looked round for water, but the poor woman had
been too weak to drag herself out to the distant pump, and water
there was none.  He snatched the child, and ran up the area-steps to
the room above, and borrowed their only saucepan with some water in
it.  Then he began, with the useful skill of a working-man, to make
some gruel; and when it was hastily made, he seized a battered iron
table-spoon (kept when many other little things had been sold in a
lot, in order to feed baby), and with it he forced one or two drops
between her clenched teeth.  The mouth opened mechanically to
receive more, and gradually she revived.  She sat up and looked
round; and recollecting all, fell down again in weak and passive
despair.  Her little child crawled to her, and wiped with its
fingers the thick-coming tears which she now had strength to weep.
It was now high time to attend to the man.  He lay on straw, so damp
and mouldy, no dog would have chosen it in preference to flags; over
it was a piece of sacking, coming next to his worn skeleton of a
body; above him was mustered every article of clothing that could be
spared by mother or children this bitter weather; and in addition to
his own, these might have given as much warmth as one blanket, could
they have been kept on him; but as he restlessly tossed to and fro,
they fell off and left him shivering in spite of the burning heat of
his skin.  Every now and then he started up in his naked madness,
looking like the prophet of woe in the fearful plague-picture; but
he soon fell again in exhaustion, and Barton found he must be
closely watched, lest in these falls he should injure himself
against the hard brick floor.  He was thankful when Wilson
re-appeared, carrying in both hands a jug of steaming tea, intended
for the poor wife; but when the delirious husband saw drink, he
snatched at it with animal instinct, with a selfishness he had never
shown in health.

Then the two men consulted together.  It seemed decided, without a
word being spoken on the subject, that both should spend the night
with the forlorn couple; that was settled.  But could no doctor be
had?  In all probability, no; the next day an Infirmary order must
be begged, but meanwhile the only medical advice they could have
must be from a druggist's.  So Barton (being the moneyed man) set
out to find a shop in London Road.

It is a pretty sight to walk through a street with lighted shops;
the gas is so brilliant, the display of goods so much more vividly
shown than by day, and of all shops a druggist's looks the most like
the tales of our childhood, from Aladdin's garden of enchanted
fruits to the charming Rosamond with her purple jar.  No such
associations had Barton; yet he felt the contrast between the
well-filled, well-lighted shops and the dim gloomy cellar, and it
made him moody that such contrasts should exist.  They are the
mysterious problem of life to more than him.  He wondered if any in
all the hurrying crowd had come from such a house of mourning.  He
thought they all looked joyous, and he was angry with them.  But he
could not, you cannot, read the lot of those who daily pass you by
in the street.  How do you know the wild romances of their lives;
the trials, the temptations they are even now enduring, resisting,
sinking under?  You may be elbowed one instant by the girl desperate
in her abandonment, laughing in mad merriment with her outward
gesture, while her soul is longing for the rest of the dead, and
bringing itself to think of the cold flowing river as the only mercy
of God remaining to her here.  You may pass the criminal, meditating
crimes at which you will to-morrow shudder with horror as you read
them.  You may push against one, humble and unnoticed, the last upon
earth, who in heaven will for ever be in the immediate light of
God's countenance.  Errands of mercy--errands of sin--did you ever
think where all the thousands of people you daily meet are bound?
Barton's was an errand of mercy; but the thoughts of his heart were
touched by sin, by bitter hatred of the happy, whom he, for the
time, confounded with the selfish.

He reached a druggist's shop, and entered.  The druggist (whose
smooth manners seemed to have been salved over with his own
spermaceti) listened attentively to Barton's description of
Davenport's illness; concluded it was typhus fever, very prevalent
in that neighbourhood; and proceeded to make up a bottle of
medicine, sweet spirits of nitre, or some such innocent potion, very
good for slight colds, but utterly powerless to stop, for an
instant, the raging fever of the poor man it was intended to
relieve.  He recommended the same course they had previously
determined to adopt, applying the next morning for an Infirmary
order; and Barton left the shop with comfortable faith in the physic
given him; for men of his class, if they believe in physic at all,
believe that every description is equally efficacious.

Meanwhile, Wilson had done what he could at Davenport's home.  He
had soothed, and covered the man many a time; he had fed and hushed
the little child, and spoken tenderly to the woman, who lay still in
her weakness and her weariness.  He had opened a door, but only for
an instant; it led into a back cellar, with a grating instead of a
window, down which dropped the moisture from pigsties, and worse
abominations.  It was not paved; the floor was one mass of bad
smelling mud.  It had never been used, for there was not an article
of furniture in it; nor could a human being, much less a pig, have
lived there many days.  Yet the "back apartment" made a difference
in the rent.  The Davenports paid threepence more for having two
rooms.  When he turned round again, he saw the woman suckling the
child from her dry, withered breast.

"Surely the lad is weaned!" exclaimed he, in surprise.  "Why, how
old is he?"

"Going on two year," she faintly answered.  "But, oh! it keeps him
quiet when I've nought else to gi' him, and he'll get a bit of sleep
lying there, if he's getten nought beside.  We han done our best to
gi' the childer* food, howe'er we pinch ourselves."

     *Wickliffe uses "childre" in his Apology, page 26.

"Han** ye had no money fra' th' town?"

     **"What concord HAN light and dark."--SPENSER.

"No; my master is Buckinghamshire born; and he's feared the town
would send him back to his parish, if he went to th' board; so we've
just borne on in hope o' better times.  But I think they'll never
come in my day," and the poor woman began her weak high-pitched cry
again.

"Here, sup* this drop o' gruel, and then try and get a bit o' sleep.
John and I will watch by your master to-night."

     *"And they SOUPE the brothe thereof."--SIR J. MANDEVILLE.

"God's blessing be on you."

She finished the gruel, and fell into a deep sleep.  Wilson covered
her with his coat as well as he could, and tried to move lightly,
for fear of disturbing her; but there need have been no such dread,
for her sleep was profound and heavy with exhaustion.  Once only she
roused to pull the coat round her little child.

And now Wilson's care, and Barton's to boot, was wanted to restrain
the wild mad agony of the fevered man.  He started up, he yelled, he
seemed infuriated by overwhelming anxiety.  He cursed and swore,
which surprised Wilson, who knew his piety in health, and who did
not know the unbridled tongue of delirium.  At length he seemed
exhausted, and fell asleep; and Barton and Wilson drew near the
fire, and talked together in whispers.  They sat on the floor, for
chairs there were none; the sole table was an old tub turned upside
down.  They put out the candle and conversed by the flickering
firelight.

"Han yo known this chap long?" asked Barton.

"Better nor three year.  He's worked wi' Carsons that long, and were
always a steady, civil-spoken fellow, though, as I said afore,
somewhat of a Methodee.  I wish I'd getten a letter he'd sent his
missis, a week or two agone, when he were on tramp for work.  It did
my heart good to read it; for, yo see, I were a bit grumbling mysel;
it seemed hard to be sponging on Jem, and taking a' his flesh-meat
money to buy bread for me and them as I ought to be keeping.  But yo
know, though I can earn nought, I mun eat summut.  Well, as I telled
ye, I were grumbling, when she" (indicating the sleeping woman by a
nod) "brought me Ben's letter, for she could na' read hersel.  It
were as good as Bible-words; ne'er a word o' repining; a' about God
being our Father, and that we mun bear patiently whate'er He sends."

"Don ye think He's th' masters' Father, too?  I'd be loth to have
'em for brothers."

"Eh, John! donna talk so; sure there's many and many a master as
good or better nor us."

"If you think so, tell me this.  How comes it they're rich, and
we're poor?  I'd like to know that.  Han they done as they'd be done
by for us?"

But Wilson was no arguer; no speechifier, as he would have called
it.  So Barton, seeing he was likely to have it his own way, went
on.

"You'll say (at least many a one does), they'n* getten capital an'
we'n getten none.  I say, our labour's our capital, and we ought to
draw interest on that.  They get interest on their capital somehow
a' this time, while ourn is lying idle, else how could they all live
as they do?  Besides, there's many on 'em has had nought to begin
wi'; there's Carsons, and Duncombes, and Mengies, and many another,
as comed into Manchester with clothes to their back, and that were
all, and now they're worth their tens of thousands, a' getten out of
our labour; why, the very land as fetched but sixty pound twenty
year agone is now worth six hundred, and that, too, is owing to our
labour; but look at yo, and see me, and poor Davenport yonder;
whatten better are we?  They'n screwed us down to the lowest peg, in
order to make their great big fortunes, and build their great big
houses, and we, why we're just clemming, many and many of us.  Can
you say there's nought wrong in this?"

     *"They'n," contraction of "they han," they have.

"Well, Barton, I'll not gainsay ye.  But Mr. Carson spoke to me
after th' fire, and says he, 'I shall ha' to retrench, and be very
careful in my expenditure during these bad times, I assure ye'; so
yo see th' masters suffer too."

"Han they ever seen a child o' their'n die for want o' food?" asked
Barton, in a low deep voice.

"I donnot mean," continued he, "to say as I'm so badly off.  I'd
scorn to speak for mysel; but when I see such men as Davenport there
dying away, for very clemming, I cannot stand it.  I've but gotten
Mary, and she keeps herself pretty much.  I think we'll ha' to give
up housekeeping; but that I donnot mind."

And in this kind of talk the night, the long heavy night of
watching, wore away.  As far as they could judge, Davenport
continued in the same state, although the symptoms varied
occasionally.  The wife slept on, only roused by the cry of her
child now and then, which seemed to have power over her, when far
louder noises failed to disturb her.  The watchers agreed, that as
soon as it was likely Mr. Carson would be up and visible, Wilson
should go to his house, and beg for an Infirmary order.  At length
the grey dawn penetrated even into the dark cellar.  Davenport
slept, and Barton was to remain there until Wilson's return; so,
stepping out into the fresh air, brisk and reviving, even in that
street of abominations, Wilson took his way to Mr. Carson's.

Wilson had about two miles to walk before he reached Mr. Carson's
house, which was almost in the country.  The streets were not yet
bustling and busy.  The shopmen were lazily taking down the
shutters, although it was near eight o'clock; for the day was long
enough for the purchases people made in that quarter of the town,
while trade was so flat.  One or two miserable-looking women were
setting off on their day's begging expedition.  But there were few
people abroad.  Mr. Carson's was a good house, and furnished with
disregard to expense.  But, in addition to lavish expenditure, there
was much taste shown, and many articles chosen for their beauty and
elegance adorned his rooms.  As Wilson passed a window which a
housemaid had thrown open, he saw pictures and gilding, at which he
was tempted to stop and look; but then he thought it would not be
respectful.  So he hastened on to the kitchen door.  The servants
seemed very busy with preparations for breakfast; but
good-naturedly, though hastily, told him to step in, and they could
soon let Mr. Carson know he was there.  So he was ushered into a
kitchen hung round with glittering tins, where a roaring fire burnt
merrily, and where numbers of utensils hung round, at whose nature
and use Wilson amused himself by guessing.  Meanwhile, the servants
bustled to and fro; an outdoor manservant came in for orders, and
sat down near Wilson.  The cook broiled steaks, and the kitchen-maid
toasted bread, and boiled eggs.

The coffee steamed upon the fire, and altogether the odours were so
mixed and appetising, that Wilson began to yearn for food to break
his fast, which had lasted since dinner the day before.  If the
servants had known this, they would have willingly given him meat
and bread in abundance; but they were like the rest of us, and not
feeling hunger themselves, forgot it was possible another might.  So
Wilson's craving turned to sickness, while they chatted on, making
the kitchen's free and keen remarks upon the parlour.

"How late you were last night, Thomas!"

"Yes, I was right weary of waiting; they told me to be at the rooms
by twelve; and there I was.  But it was two o'clock before they
called me."

"And did you wait all that time in the street?" asked the housemaid,
who had done her work for the present, and come into the kitchen for
a bit of gossip.

"My eye as like! you don't think I'm such a fool as to catch my
death of cold, and let the horses catch their death too, as we
should ha' done if we'd stopped there.  No! I put th' horses up in
th' stables at th' Spread Eagle, and went mysel, and got a glass or
two by th' fire.  They're driving a good custom, them, wi' coachmen.
There were five on us, and we'd many a quart o' ale, and gin wi' it,
to keep out th' cold."

"Mercy on us, Thomas; you'll get a drunkard at last!"

"If I do, I know whose blame it will be.  It will be missis's, and
not mine.  Flesh and blood can't sit to be starved to death on a
coach-box, waiting for folks as don't know their own mind."

A servant, semi-upper-housemaid, semi-lady's-maid, now came down
with orders from her mistress.

"Thomas, you must ride to the fishmongers, and say missis can't give
above half-a-crown a pound for salmon for Tuesday; she's grumbling
because trade's so bad.  And she'll want the carriage at three to go
to the lecture, Thomas; at the Royal Execution, you know."

"Ay, ay, I know."

"And you'd better all of you mind your P's and Q's, for she's very
black this morning.  She's got a bad headache."

"It's a pity Miss Jenkins is not here to match her.  Lord! how she
and missis did quarrel which had got the worst headaches; it was
that Miss Jenkins left for.  She would not give up having bad
headaches, and missis could not abide anyone to have 'em but
herself."

"Missis will have her breakfast upstairs, cook, and the cold
partridge as was left yesterday, and put plenty of cream in her
coffee, and she thinks there's a roll left, and she would like it
well buttered."

So saying, the maid left the kitchen to be ready to attend to the
young ladies' bell when they chose to ring, after their late
assembly the night before.  In the luxurious library, at the
well-spread breakfast-table, sat the two Mr. Carsons, father and
son.  Both were reading--the father a newspaper, the son a review--
while they lazily enjoyed their nicely prepared food.  The father
was a prepossessing-looking old man; perhaps self-indulgent you
might guess.  The son was strikingly handsome, and knew it.  His
dress was neat and well appointed, and his manners far more
gentlemanly than his father's.  He was the only son, and his sisters
were proud of him; his father and mother were proud of him: he
could not set up his judgment against theirs; he was proud of
himself.

The door opened and in bounded Amy, the sweet youngest daughter of
the house, a lovely girl of sixteen, fresh and glowing, and bright
as a rosebud.  She was too young to go to assemblies, at which her
father rejoiced, for he had little Amy with her pretty jokes, and
her bird-like songs, and her playful caresses all the evening to
amuse him in his loneliness; and she was not too much tired like
Sophy and Helen, to give him her sweet company at breakfast the next
morning.

He submitted willingly while she blinded him with her hands, and
kissed his rough red face all over.  She took his newspaper away
after a little pretended resistance, and would not allow her brother
Harry to go on with his review.

"I'm the only lady this morning, papa, so you know you must make a
great deal of me."

"My darling, I think you have your own way always, whether you're
the only lady or not."

"Yes, papa, you're pretty good and obedient, I must say that; but
I'm sorry to say Harry is very naughty, and does not do what I tell
him; do you, Harry?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean to accuse me of, Amy; I
expected praise and not blame; for did not I get you that eau de
Portugal from town, that you could not meet with at Hughes', you
little ungrateful puss?"

"Did you? Oh, sweet Harry; you're as sweet as eau de Portugal
yourself; you're almost as good as papa; but still you know you did
go and forget to ask Bigland for that rose, that new rose they say
he has got."

"No, Amy, I did not forget.  I asked him, and he has got the Rose,
sans reproche: but do you know, little Miss Extravagance, a very
small one is half-a-guinea?"

"Oh, I don't mind.  Papa will give it me, won't you, dear father?
He knows his little daughter cannot live without flowers and
scents."

Mr. Carson tried to refuse his darling, but she coaxed him into
acquiescence, saying she must have it, it was one of her
necessaries.  Life was not worth having without flowers.

"Then, Amy," said her brother, "try and be content with peonies and
dandelions."

"Oh, you wretch!  I don't call them flowers.  Besides, you're every
bit as extravagant.  Who gave half-a-crown for a bunch of lilies of
the valley at Yates', a month ago, and then would not let his poor
little sister have them, though she went on her knees to beg them?
Answer me that, Master Hal."

"Not on compulsion," replied her brother, smiling with his mouth,
while his eyes had an irritated expression, and he went first red,
then pale, with vexed embarrassment.

"If you please, sir," said a servant, entering the room, "here's one
of the mill people wanting to see you; his name is Wilson, he says."

"I'll come to him directly; stay, tell him to come in here."

Amy danced off into the conservatory which opened out of the room,
before the gaunt, pale, unwashed, unshaven weaver was ushered in.
There he stood at the door sleeking his hair with old country habit,
and every now and then stealing a glance round at the splendour of
the apartment.

"Well, Wilson, and what do you want to-day, man?"

"Please, sir, Davenport's ill of the fever, and I'm come to know if
you've got an Infirmary order for him?"

"Davenport--Davenport; who is the fellow?  I don't know the name."

"He's worked in your factory better nor three years, sir."

"Very likely; I don't pretend to know the names of the men I employ;
that I leave to the overlooker.  So he's ill, eh?"

"Ay, sir, he's very bad; we want to get him in at the Fever Wards."

"I doubt if I've an in-patient's order to spare at present; but I'll
give you an out-patient's and welcome."

So saying, he rose up, unlocked a drawer, pondered a minute, and
then gave Wilson an out-patient's order.

Meanwhile, the younger Mr. Carson had ended his review, and began to
listen to what was going on.  He finished his breakfast, got up, and
pulled five shillings out of his pocket, which he gave to Wilson as
he passed him, for the "poor fellow."  He went past quickly, and
calling for his horse, mounted gaily, and rode away.  He was anxious
to be in time to have a look and a smile from lovely  Mary Barton,
as she went to Miss Simmonds'.  But to-day he was to be
disappointed.  Wilson left the house, not knowing whether to be
pleased or grieved.  They had all spoken kindly to him, and who
could tell if they might not inquire into Davenport's case, and do
something for him and his family.  Besides, the cook, who, when she
had had time to think, after breakfast was sent in, had noticed his
paleness, had had meat and bread ready to put in his hand when he
came out of the parlour; and a full stomach makes every one of us
more hopeful.  When he reached Berry Street, he had persuaded
himself he bore good news, and felt almost elated in his heart.  But
it fell when he opened the cellar-door, and saw Barton and the wife
both bending over the sick man's couch with awestruck, saddened
look.

"Come here," said Barton.  "There's a change comed over him sin' yo
left, is there not?"

Wilson looked.  The flesh was sunk, the features prominent, bony,
and rigid.  The fearful clay-colour of death was over all.  But the
eyes were open and sensitive, though the films of the grave were
setting upon them.

"He wakened fra' his sleep, as yo left him in, and began to mutter
and moan; but he soon went off again, and we never knew he were
awake till he called his wife, but now she's here he's gotten nought
to say to her."

Most probably, as they all felt, he could not speak, for his
strength was fast ebbing.  They stood round him still and silent;
even the wife checked her sobs, though her heart was like to break.
She held her child to her breast, to try and keep him quiet.  Their
eyes were all fixed on the yet living one, whose moments of life
were passing so rapidly away.  At length he brought (with jerking
convulsive effort) his two hands into the attitude of prayer.  They
saw his lips move, and bent to catch the words, which came in gasps,
and not in tones.

"O Lord God!  I thank thee, that the hard struggle of living is
over."

"O Ben! Ben!" wailed forth his wife, "have you no thought for me?  O
Ben!  Ben! do say one word to help me through life."

He could not speak again.  The trump of the archangel would set his
tongue free; but not a word more would it utter till then.  Yet he
heard, he understood, and though sight failed, he moved his hand
gropingly over the covering.  They knew what he meant, and guided it
to her head, bowed and hidden in her hands, when she had sunk in her
woe.  It rested there with a feeble pressure of endearment.  The
face grew beautiful, as the soul neared God.  A peace beyond
understanding came over it.  The hand was a heavy stiff weight on
the wife's head.  No more grief or sorrow for him.  They reverently
laid out the corpse--Wilson fetching his only spare shirt to array
it in.  The wife still lay hidden in the clothes, in a stupor of
agony.

There was a knock at the door, and Barton went to open it.  It was
Mary, who had received a message from her father, through a
neighbour, telling her where he was; and she had set out early to
come and have a word with him before her day's work; but some
errands she had to do for Miss Simmonds had detained her until now.

"Come in, wench!" said her father.  "Try if thou canst comfort yon
poor, poor woman, kneeling down there.  God help her!"

Mary did not know what to say, or how to comfort; but she knelt down
by her, and put her arm round her neck, and in a little while fell
to crying herself so bitterly that the source of tears was opened by
sympathy in the widow, and her full heart was, for a time, relieved.

And Mary forgot all purposed meeting with her gay lover, Harry
Carson; forgot Miss Simmonds' errands, and her anger, in the anxious
desire to comfort the poor lone woman.  Never had her sweet face
looked more angelic, never had her gentle voice seemed so musical as
when she murmured her broken sentences of comfort.

"Oh, don't cry so, dear Mrs. Davenport, pray don't take on so.  Sure
he's gone where he'll never know care again.  Yes, I know how
lonesome you must feel; but think of your children.  Oh! we'll all
help to earn food for 'em.  Think how sorry HE'D be, if he sees you
fretting so.  Don't cry so, please don't."

And she ended by crying herself as passionately as the poor widow.

It was agreed the town must bury him; he had paid to a burial club
as long as he could, but by a few weeks' omission, he had forfeited
his claim to a sum of money now.  Would Mrs. Davenport and the
little child go home with Mary?  The latter brightened up as she
urged this plan; but no! where the poor, fondly loved remains were,
there would the mourner be; and all that they could do was to make
her as comfortable as their funds would allow, and to beg a
neighbour to look in and say a word at times.  So she was left alone
with her dead, and they went to work that had work, and he who had
none, took upon him the arrangements for the funeral.

Mary had many a scolding from Miss Simmonds that day for her absence
of mind.  To be sure Miss Simmonds was much put out by Mary's
non-appearance in the morning with certain bits of muslin, and
shades of silk which were wanted to complete a dress to be worn that
night; but it was true enough that Mary did not mind what she was
about; she was too busy planning how her old black gown (her best
when her mother died) might be sponged, and turned, and lengthened
into something like decent mourning for the widow.  And when she
went home at night (though it was very late, as a sort of
retribution for her morning's negligence), she set to work at once,
and was so busy and so glad over her task, that she had, every now
and then, to check herself in singing merry ditties, which she felt
little accorded with the sewing on which she was engaged.

So when the funeral day came, Mrs. Davenport was neatly arrayed in
black, a satisfaction to her poor heart in the midst of her sorrow.
Barton and Wilson both accompanied her, as she led her two elder
boys, and followed the coffin.  It was a simple walking funeral,
with nothing to grate on the feelings of any; far more in accordance
with its purpose, to my mind, than the gorgeous hearses, and nodding
plumes, which form the grotesque funeral pomp of respectable people.
There was no "rattling the bones over the stones," of the pauper's
funeral.  Decently and quietly was he followed to the grave by one
determined to endure her woe meekly for his sake.  The only mark of
pauperism attendant on the burial concerned the living and joyous,
far more than the dead, or the sorrowful.  When they arrived in the
churchyard, they halted before a raised and handsome tombstone; in
reality a wooden mockery of stone respectabilities which adorned the
burial-ground.  It was easily raised in a very few minutes, and
below was the grave in which pauper bodies were piled until within a
foot or two of the surface; when the soil was shovelled over, and
stamped down, and the wooden cover went to do temporary duty over
another hole.*  But little recked they of this who now gave up their
dead.

     *The case, to my certain knowledge, in one churchyard in
      Manchester. There may be more.

VII.   JEM WILSON'S REPULSE.

     "How infinite the wealth of love and hope
      Garnered in these same tiny treasure-houses
      And oh! what bankrupts in the world we feel,
      When Death, like some remorseless creditor,
      Seizes on all we fondly thought our own."
                                       --"THE TWINS."

The ghoul-like fever was not to be braved with impunity, and balked
of its prey.  The widow had reclaimed her children; her neighbours,
in the good-Samaritan sense of the word, had paid her little arrears
of rent, and made her a few shillings beforehand with the world.
She determined to flit from that cellar to another less full of
painful associations, less haunted by mournful memories.  The Board,
not so formidable as she had imagined, had inquired into her case;
and, instead of sending her to Stoke Claypole, her husband's
Buckinghamshire parish, as she had dreaded, had agreed to pay her
rent.  So food for four mouths was all she was now required to find;
only for three she would have said; for herself and the unweaned
child were but reckoned as one in her calculation.

She had a strong heart, now her bodily strength had been recruited
by a week or two of food, and she would not despair.  So she took in
some little children to nurse, who brought their daily food with
them, which she cooked for them, without wronging their helplessness
of a crumb; and when she had restored them to their mothers at
night, she set to work at plain sewing, "seam, and gusset, and
band," and sat thinking how she might best cheat the factory
inspector, and persuade him that her strong, big, hungry Ben was
above thirteen.  Her plan of living was so far arranged, when she
heard, with keen sorrow, that Wilson's twin lads were ill of the
fever.

They had never been strong.  They were like many a pair of twins,
and seemed to have but one life divided between them.  One life, one
strength, and in this instance, I might almost say, one brain, for
they were helpless, gentle, silly children, but not the less dear to
their parents and to their strong, active, manly, elder brother.
They were late on their feet, late in talking, late every way; had
to be nursed and cared for when other lads of their age were
tumbling about in the street, and losing themselves, and being taken
to the police-office miles away from home.

Still want had never yet come in at the door to make love for these
innocents fly out of the window.  Nor was this the case even now,
when Jem Wilson's earnings, and his mother's occasional charings,
were barely sufficient to give all the family their fill of food.

But when the twins, after ailing many days, and caring little for
their meat, fell sick on the same afternoon, with the same heavy
stupor of suffering, the three hearts that loved them so, each felt,
though none acknowledged to the other, that they had little chance
for life.  It was nearly a week before the tale of their illness
spread as far as the court where the Wilsons had once dwelt, and the
Bartons yet lived.

Alice had heard of the sickness of her little nephews several days
before, and had locked her cellar door, and gone off straight to her
brother's house, in Ancoats; but she was often absent for days, sent
for, as her neighbours knew, to help in some sudden emergency of
illness or distress, so that occasioned no surprise.

Margaret met Jem Wilson several days after his brothers were
seriously ill, and heard from him the state of things at his home.
She told Mary of it as she entered the court late that evening; and
Mary listened with saddened heart to the strange contrast which such
woeful tidings presented to the gay and loving words she had been
hearing on her walk home.  She blamed herself for being so much
taken up with visions of the golden future that she had lately gone
but seldom on Sunday afternoons, or other leisure time, to see Mrs.
Wilson, her mother's friend; and with hasty purpose of amendment she
only stayed to leave a message for her father with the next-door
neighbour, and then went off at a brisk pace on her way to the house
of mourning.

She stopped with her hand on the latch of the Wilsons' door, to
still her beating heart, and listened to the hushed quiet within.
She opened the door softly; there sat Mrs. Wilson in the old
rocking-chair, with one sick death-like boy lying on her knee,
crying without let or pause, but softly, gently, as fearing to
disturb the troubled, gasping child; while behind her, old Alice let
her fast-dropping tears fall down on the dead body of the other
twin, which she was laying out on a board placed on a sort of
sofa-settee in a corner of the room.  Over the child, which yet
breathed, the father bent, watching anxiously for some ground of
hope, where hope there was none.  Mary stepped slowly and lightly
across to Alice.

"Ay, poor lad!  God has taken him early, Mary."

Mary could not speak, she did not know what to say; it was so much
worse than she had expected.  At last she ventured to whisper--

"Is there any chance for the other one, think you?"

Alice shook her head, and told with a look that she believed there
was none.  She next endeavoured to lift the little body, and carry
it to its old accustomed bed in its parents' room.  But earnest as
the father was in watching the yet-living, he had eyes and ears for
all that concerned the dead, and sprang gently up, and took his dead
son on his hard couch in his arms with tender strength, and carried
him upstairs as if afraid of wakening him.

The other child gasped louder, longer, with more of effort.

"We mun get him away from his mother.  He cannot die while she's
wishing him."

"Wishing him?" said Mary, in a tone of inquiry.

"Ay; donno' ye know what 'wishing' means?  There's none can die in
the arms of those who are wishing them sore to stay on earth.  The
soul o' them as holds them won't let the dying soul go free; so it
has a hard struggle for the quiet of death.  We mun get him away
fra' his mother, or he'll have a hard death, poor lile* fellow."

     *"Lile," a north-country word for "little."
             "Wit leil labour to live."--Piers Plowman.

So without circumlocution she went and offered to take the sinking
child.  But the mother would not let him go, and looking in Alice's
face with brimming and imploring eyes, declared, in earnest
whispers, that she was not wishing him, that she would fain have him
released from his suffering.  Alice and Mary stood by with eyes
fixed on the poor child, whose struggles seemed to increase, till at
last his mother said, with a choking voice--

"May happen* yo'd better take him, Alice; I believe my heart's
wishing him a' this while, for I cannot, no, I cannot bring mysel to
let my two childer go in one day; I cannot help longing to keep him,
and yet he shan't suffer longer for me."

     *"May happen," perhaps.

She bent down, and fondly, oh! with what passionate fondness, kissed
her child, and then gave him up to Alice, who took him with tender
care.  Nature's struggles were soon exhausted, and he breathed his
little life away in peace.

Then the mother lifted up her voice and wept.  Her cries brought her
husband down to try with his aching heart to comfort hers.  Again
Alice laid out the dead, Mary helping with reverent fear.  The
father and mother carried him upstairs to the bed, where his little
brother lay in calm repose.

Mary and Alice drew near the fire, and stood in quiet sorrow for
some time.  Then Alice broke the silence by saying--

"It will be bad news for Jem, poor fellow, when he comes home."

"Where is he?" asked Mary.

"Working over-hours at th' shop.  They'n getten a large order fra'
forrin parts; and yo know, Jem mun work, though his heart's
well-nigh breaking for these poor laddies."

Again they were silent in thought, and again Alice spoke first.

"I sometimes think the Lord is against planning.  Whene'er I plan
overmuch, He is sure to send and mar all my plans, as if He would
ha' me put the future into His hands.  Afore Christmas time I was as
full as full could be, of going home for good and all; yo han heard
how I've wished it this terrible long time.  And a young lass from
behind Burton came into place in Manchester last Martinmas; so after
awhile she had a Sunday out, and she comes to me, and tells me some
cousins o' mine bid her find me out, and say how glad they should be
to ha' me to bide wi' 'em, and look after th' childer, for they'n
getten a big farm, and she's a deal to do among th' cows.  So many's
a winter's night did I lie awake and think, that please God, come
summer, I'd bid George and his wife goodbye, and go home at last.
Little did I think how God Almighty would balk me, for not leaving
my days in His hands, who had led me through the wilderness
hitherto.  Here's George out of work, and more cast down than ever I
seed him; wanting every chip o' comfort he can get, e'en afore this
last heavy stroke; and now I'm thinking the Lord's finger points
very clear to my fit abiding-place; and I'm sure if George and Jane
can say 'His will be done,' it's no more than what I'm beholden to
do."

So saying, she fell to tidying the room, removing as much as she
could every vestige of sickness; making up the fire, and setting on
the kettle for a cup of tea for her sister-in-law, whose low moans
and sobs were occasionally heard in the room below.

Mary helped her in all these little offices.  They were busy in this
way when the door was softly opened, and Jem came in, all grimed and
dirty from his night-work, his soiled apron wrapped round his
middle, in guise and apparel in which he would have been sorry at
another time to have been seen by Mary.  But just now he hardly saw
her; he went straight up to Alice, and asked how the little chaps
were.  They had been a shade better at dinner-time; and he had been
working away through the long afternoon, and far into the night, in
the belief that they had taken the turn.  He had stolen out during
the half-hour allowed at the works for tea, to buy them an orange or
two, which now puffed out his jacket-pocket.

He would make his aunt speak: he would not understand her shake of
the head and fast coursing tears.

"They're both gone," said she.

"Dead!"

"Ay! poor fellows.  They took worse about two o'clock.  Joe went
first, as easy as a lamb, and Will died harder like."

"Both!"

"Ay, lad! both.  The Lord has ta'en them from some evil to come, or
He would na' ha' made choice o' them.  Ye may rest sure o' that."

Jem went to the cupboard, and quietly extricated from his pocket the
oranges he had bought.  But he stayed long there, and at last his
sturdy frame shook with his strong agony.  The two women were
frightened, as women always are, on witnessing a man's overpowering
grief.  They cried afresh in company.  Mary's heart melted within
her as she witnessed Jem's sorrow, and she stepped gently up to the
corner where he stood, with his back turned to them, and putting her
hand softly on his arm, said--

"O Jem, don't give way so; I cannot bear to see you."

Jem felt a strange leap of joy in his heart, and knew the power she
had of comforting him.  He did not speak, as though fearing to
destroy by sound or motion the happiness of that moment, when her
soft hand's touch thrilled through his frame, and her silvery voice
was whispering tenderness in his ear.  Yes! it might be very wrong;
he could almost hate himself for it; with death and woe so
surrounding him, it yet was happiness, was bliss, to be so spoken to
by Mary.

"Don't, Jem, please don't," whispered she again, believing that his
silence was only another form of grief.

He could not contain himself.  He took her hand in his firm yet
trembling grasp, and said, in tones that instantly produced a
revulsion in her mood--

"Mary, I almost loathe myself when I feel I would not give up this
minute, when my brothers lie dead, and father and mother are in such
trouble, for all my life that's past and gone.  And, Mary," (as she
tried to release her hand), "you know what makes me feel so
blessed."

She did know--he was right there.  But as he turned to catch a look
at her sweet face, he saw that it expressed unfeigned distress,
almost amounting to vexation; a dread of him, that he thought was
almost repugnance.

He let her hand go, and she quickly went away to Alice's side.

"Fool that I was--nay, wretch that I was--to let myself take this
time of trouble to tell her how I loved her; no wonder that she
turns away from such a selfish beast."

Partly to relieve her from his presence, and partly from natural
desire, and partly, perhaps, from a penitent wish to share to the
utmost his parents' sorrow, he soon went upstairs to the chamber of
death.

Mary mechanically helped Alice in all the duties she performed
through the remainder of that long night, but she did not see Jem
again.  He remained upstairs until after the early dawn showed Mary
that she need have no fear of going home through the deserted and
quiet streets, to try and get a little sleep before work-hour.  So
leaving kind messages to George and Jane Wilson, and hesitating
whether she might dare to send a few kind words to Jem, and deciding
that she had better not, she stepped out into the bright morning
light, so fresh a contrast to the darkened room where death had
been.

                                      "They had
                      Another morn than ours."

Mary lay down on her bed in her clothes; and whether it was this, or
the broad day-light that poured in through the sky window, or
whether it was over-excitement, it was long before she could catch a
wink of sleep.  Her thoughts ran on Jem's manner and words; not but
what she had known the tale they told for many a day; but still she
wished he had not put it so plainly.

"O dear," said she to herself, "I wish he would not mistake me so; I
never dare to speak a common word o' kindness, but his eye brightens
and his cheek flushes.  It's very hard on me; for father and George
Wilson are old friends; and Jem and I ha' known each other since we
were quite children.  I cannot think what possesses me, that I must
always be wanting to comfort him when he's downcast, and that I must
go meddling wi' him to-night, when sure enough it was his aunt's
place to speak to him.  I don't care for him, and yet, unless I'm
always watching myself, I'm speaking to him in a loving voice.  I
think I cannot go right, for I either check myself till I'm
downright cross to him, or else I speak just natural, and that's too
kind and tender by half.  And I'm as good as engaged to be married
to another; and another far handsomer than Jem; only I think I like
Jem's face best for all that; liking's liking, and there's no help
for it.  Well, when I'm Mrs. Harry Carson, may happen I can put some
good fortune in Jem's way.  But will he thank me for it?  He's
rather savage at times, that I can see, and perhaps kindness from
me, when I'm another's, will only go against the grain.  I'll not
plague myself wi' thinking any more about him, that I won't."

So she turned on her pillow, and fell asleep, and dreamt of what was
often in her waking thoughts; of the day when she should ride from
church in her carriage, with wedding-bells ringing, and take up her
astonished father, and drive away from the old dim work-a-day court
for ever, to live in a grand house, where her father should have
newspapers, and pamphlets, and pipes, and meat dinners every
day--and all day long if he liked.

Such thoughts mingled in her predilection for the handsome young Mr.
Carson, who, unfettered by work-hours, let scarcely a day pass
without contriving a meeting with the beautiful little milliner he
had first seen while lounging in a shop where his sisters were
making some purchases, and afterwards never rested till he had
freely, though respectfully, made her acquaintance in her daily
walks.  He was, to use his own expression to himself, quite
infatuated by her, and was restless each day till the time came when
he had a chance, and, of late, more than a chance of meeting her.
There was something of keen practical shrewdness about her, which
contrasted very bewitchingly with the simple, foolish, unworldly
ideas she had picked up from the romances which Miss Simmonds' young
ladies were in the habit of recommending to each other.

Yes! Mary was ambitious, and did not favour Mr. Carson the less
because he was rich and a gentleman.  The old leaven, infused years
ago by her Aunt Esther, fermented in her little bosom, and perhaps
all the more, for her father's aversion to the rich and the gentle.
Such is the contrariness of the human heart, from Eve downwards,
that we all, in our old Adam state, fancy things forbidden sweetest.
So Mary dwelt upon and enjoyed the idea of some day becoming a lady,
and doing all the elegant nothings appertaining to ladyhood.  It was
a comfort to her, when scolded by Miss Simmonds, to think of the day
when she would drive up to the door in her own carriage, to order
her gowns from the hasty-tempered yet kind dressmaker.  It was a
pleasure to her to hear the general admiration of the two elder Miss
Carsons, acknowledged beauties in ball-room and street, on horseback
and on foot, and to think of the time when she should ride and walk
with them in loving sisterhood.  But the best of her plans, the
holiest, that which in some measure redeemed the vanity of the rest,
were those relating to her father; her dear father, now oppressed
with care, and always a disheartened, gloomy person.  How she would
surround him with every comfort she could devise (of course, he was
to live with them), till he should acknowledge riches to be very
pleasant things, and bless his lady-daughter!  Every one who had
shown her kindness in her low estate should then be repaid a
hundredfold.

Such were the castles in air, the Alnaschar-visions in which Mary
indulged, and which she was doomed in after days to expiate with
many tears.

Meanwhile, her words--or, even more, her tones--would maintain their
hold on Jem Wilson's memory.  A thrill would yet come over him when
he remembered how her hand had rested on his arm.  The thought of
her mingled with all his grief, and it was profound, for the loss of
his brothers.

VIII.   MARGARET'S DEBUT AS A PUBLIC SINGER.

"Deal gently with them, they have much endured;
 Scoff not at their fond hopes and earnest plans,
 Though they may seem to thee wild dreams and fancies.
 Perchance, in the rough school of stern Experience,
 They've something learned which Theory does not teach;
 Or if they greatly err, deal gently still,
 And let their error but the stronger plead,
 'Give us the light and guidance that we need!'"
                                    --LOVE THOUGHTS.

One Sunday afternoon, about three weeks after that mournful night,
Jem Wilson set out with the ostensible purpose of calling on John
Barton.  He was dressed in his best--his Sunday suit of course;
while his face glittered with the scrubbing he had bestowed on it.
His dark black hair had been arranged and rearranged before the
household looking-glass, and in his button-hole he stuck a narcissus
(a sweet Nancy is its pretty Lancashire name), hoping it would
attract Mary's notice, so that he might have the delight of giving
it her.

It was a bad beginning of his visit of happiness that Mary saw him
some minutes before he came into her father's house.  She was
sitting at the end of the dresser, with the little window-blind
drawn on one side, in order that she might see the passers-by, in
the intervals of reading her Bible, which lay open before her.  So
she watched all the greeting a friend gave Jem; she saw the face of
condolence, the sympathetic shake of the hand, and had time to
arrange her own face and manner before Jem came in, which he did, as
if he had eyes for no one but her father, who sat smoking his pipe
by the fire, while he read an old Northern Star, borrowed from a
neighbouring public-house.

Then he turned to Mary, who, he felt through the sure instinct of
love, by which almost his body thought, was present.  Her hands were
busy adjusting her dress; a forced and unnecessary movement Jem
could not help thinking.  Her accost was quiet and friendly, if
grave; she felt that she reddened like a rose, and wished she could
prevent it, while Jem wondered if her blushes arose from fear, or
anger, or love.

She was very cunning, I am afraid.  She pretended to read
diligently, and not to listen to a word that was said, while in fact
she heard all sounds, even to Jem's long, deep sighs, which wrung
her heart.  At last she took up her Bible, and as if their
conversation disturbed her, went upstairs to her little room.  And
she had scarcely spoken a word to Jem; scarcely looked at him; never
noticed his beautiful sweet Nancy, which only awaited her least word
of praise to be hers!  He did not know--that pang was spared--that
in her little dingy bedroom stood a white jug, filled with a
luxuriant bunch of early spring roses, making the whole room
fragrant and bright.  They were the gift of her richer lover.  So
Jem had to go on sitting with John Barton, fairly caught in his own
trap, and had to listen to his talk, and answer him as best he
might.

"There's the right stuff in this here Star, and no mistake.  Such a
right-down piece for short hours."

"At the same rate of wages as now?" asked Jem.

"Aye, aye! else where's the use?  It's only taking out o' the
masters' pocket what they can well afford.  Did I ever tell yo what
th' Infirmary chap let me into, many a year agone?"

"No," said Jem listlessly.

"Well! yo must know I were in th' Infirmary for a fever, and times
were rare and bad, and there be good chaps there to a man while he's
wick,* whate'er they may be about cutting him up at after.**  So
when I were better o' th' fever, but weak as water, they says to me,
says they, 'If yo can write, you may stay in a week longer, and help
our surgeon wi' sorting his papers; and we'll take care yo've your
bellyful of meat and drink.  Yo'll be twice as strong in a week.'
So there wanted but one word to that bargain.  So I were set to
writing and copying; th' writing I could do well enough, but they'd
such queer ways o' spelling, that I'd ne'er been used to, that I'd
to look first at th' copy and then at my letters, for all the world
like a cock picking up grains o' corn.  But one thing startled me
e'en then, and I thought I'd make bold to ask the surgeon the
meaning o't.  I've getten no head for numbers, but this I know, that
by FAR TH' GREATER PART O' THE ACCIDENTS AS COMED IN, HAPPENED IN
TH' LAST TWO HOURS O' WORK, when folk getten tired and careless.
Th' surgeon said it were all true, and that he were going to bring
that fact to light."

     *Wick; alive. Anglo-Saxon, cwic. "The QUICK and the dead."
                            --Book of Common Prayer.
    **At after; "AT AFTER souper goth this noble king."
                            --CHAUCER, The Squire's Tale.

Jem was pondering Mary's conduct; but the pause made him aware he
ought to utter some civil listening noise; so he said--

"Very true."

"Ay, it's true enough, my lad, that we're sadly over-borne, and
worse will come of it afore long.  Block-printers is going to
strike; they'n getten a bang-up Union, as won't let 'em be put upon.
But there's many a thing will happen afore long, as folk don't
expect.  Yo may take my word for that, Jem."

Jem was very willing to take it, but did not express the curiosity
he should have done.  So John Barton thought he'd try another hint
or two.

"Working folk won't be ground to the dust much longer.  We'n a' had
as much to bear as human nature can bear.  So, if th' masters can't
do us no good, and they say they can't, we mun try higher folk."

Still Jem was not curious.  He gave up hope of seeing Mary again by
her own good free-will; and the next best thing would be, to be
alone to think of her.  So muttering something which he meant to
serve as an excuse for his sudden departure, he hastily wished John
good-afternoon, and left him to resume his pipe and his politics.

For three years past trade had been getting worse and worse, and the
price of provisions higher and higher.  This disparity between the
amount of the earnings of the working classes and the price of their
food, occasioned, in more cases than could well be imagined, disease
and death.  Whole families went through a gradual starvation.  They
only wanted a Dante to record their sufferings.  And yet even his
words would fall short of the awful truth; they could only present
an outline of the tremendous facts of the destitution that
surrounded thousands upon thousands in the terrible years 1839,
1840, and 1841.  Even philanthropists who had studied the subject,
were forced to own themselves perplexed in their endeavour to
ascertain the real causes of the misery; the whole matter was of so
complicated a nature, that it became next to impossible to
understand it thoroughly.  It need excite no surprise, then, to
learn that a bad feeling between working-men and the upper classes
became very strong in this season of privation.  The indigence and
sufferings of the operatives induced a suspicion in the minds of
many of them, that their legislators, their magistrates, their
employers, and even the ministers of religion, were, in general,
their oppressors and enemies; and were in league for their
prostration and enthralment.  The most deplorable and enduring evil
that arose out of the period of commercial depression to which I
refer, was this feeling of alienation between the different classes
of society.  It is so impossible to describe, or even faintly to
picture, the state of distress which prevailed in the town at that
time, that I will not attempt it; and yet I think again that surely,
in a Christian land, it was not known even so feebly as words could
tell it, or the more happy and fortunate would have thronged with
their sympathy and their aid.  In many instances the sufferers wept
first, and then they cursed.  Their vindictive feelings exhibited
themselves in rabid politics.  And when I hear, as I have heard, of
the sufferings and privations of the poor, of provision shops where
ha'porths of tea, sugar, butter, and even flour, were sold to
accommodate the indigent--of parents sitting in their clothes by the
fireside during the whole night, for seven weeks together, in order
that their only bed and bedding might be reserved for the use of
their large family--of others sleeping upon the cold hearthstone for
weeks in succession, without adequate means of providing themselves
with food or fuel (and this in the depth of winter)--of others being
compelled to fast for days together, uncheered by any hope of better
fortune, living, moreover, or rather starving, in a crowded garret,
or damp cellar, and gradually sinking under the pressure of want and
despair into a premature grave; and when this has been confirmed by
the evidence of their careworn looks, their excited feelings, and
their desolate homes--can I wonder that many of them, in such times
of misery and destitution, spoke and acted with ferocious
precipitation?

An idea was now springing up among the operatives, that originated
with the Chartists, but which came at last to be cherished as a
darling child by many and many a one.  They could not believe that
Government knew of their misery; they rather chose to think it
possible that men could voluntarily assume the office of legislators
for a nation who were ignorant of its real state; as who should make
domestic rules for the pretty behaviour of children without caring
to know that those children had been kept for days without food.
Besides, the starving multitudes had heard, that the very existence
of their distress had been denied in Parliament; and though they
felt this strange and inexplicable, yet the idea that their misery
had still to be revealed in all its depths, and that then some
remedy would be found, soothed their aching hearts, and kept down
their rising fury.

So a petition was framed, and signed by thousands in the bright
spring days of 1839, imploring Parliament to hear witnesses who
could testify to the unparalleled destitution of the manufacturing
districts.  Nottingham, Sheffield, Glasgow, Manchester, and many
other towns, were busy appointing delegates to convey this petition,
who might speak, not merely of what they had seen, and had heard,
but from what they had borne and suffered.  Life-worn, gaunt,
anxious, hunger-stamped men, were those delegates.

One of them was John Barton.  He would have been ashamed to own the
flutter of spirits his appointment gave him.  There was the childish
delight of seeing London--that went a little way, and but a little
way.  There was the vain idea of speaking out his notions before so
many grand folk--that went a little further; and last, there was the
really pure gladness of heart arising from the idea that he was one
of those chosen to be instruments in making known the distresses of
the people, and consequently in procuring them some grand relief, by
means of which they should never suffer want or care any more.  He
hoped largely, but vaguely, of the results of his expedition.  An
argosy of the precious hopes of many otherwise despairing creatures,
was that petition to be heard concerning their sufferings.

The night before the morning on which the Manchester delegates were
to leave for London, Barton might be said to hold a levee, so many
neighbours came dropping in.  Job Legh had early established himself
and his pipe by John Barton's fire, not saying much, but puffing
away, and imagining himself of use in adjusting the smoothing-irons
that hung before the fire, ready for Mary when she should want them.
As for Mary, her employment was the same as that of Beau Tibbs'
wife, "just washing her father's two shirts," in the pantry
back-kitchen; for she was anxious about his appearance in London.
(The coat had been redeemed, though the silk handkerchief was
forfeited.)  The door stood open, as usual, between the house-place
and back-kitchen, so she gave her greeting to their friends as they
entered.

"So, John, yo're bound for London, are yo?" said one.

"Ay, I suppose I mun go," answered John, yielding to necessity as it
were.

"Well, there's many a thing I'd like yo to speak on to the
Parliament people.  Thou'lt not spare 'em, John, I hope.  Tell 'em
our minds: how we're thinking we'n been clemmed long enough, and
we donnot see whatten good they'n been doing, if they can't give us
what we're all crying for sin' the day we were born."

"Ay, ay! I'll tell 'em that, and much more to it, when it gets to my
turn; but thou knows there's many will have their word afore me."

"Well, thou'lt speak at last.  Bless thee, lad, do ask 'em to make
th' masters to break th' machines.  There's never been good times
sin' spinning-jennies came up."

"Machines is th' ruin of poor folk," chimed in several voices.

"For my part," said a shivering, half-clad man, who crept near the
fire, as if ague-stricken, "I would like thee to tell 'em to pass
th' Short-hours Bill.  Flesh and blood gets wearied wi' so much
work; why should factory hands work so much longer nor other trades?
Just ask 'em that, Barton, will ye?"

Barton was saved the necessity of answering, by the entrance of Mrs.
Davenport, the poor widow he had been so kind to.  She looked
half-fed, and eager, but was decently clad.  In her hand she brought
a little newspaper parcel, which she took to Mary, who opened it,
and then called out, dangling a shirt collar from her soapy fingers--

"See, father, what a dandy you'll be in London!  Mrs. Davenport has
brought you this; made new cut, all after the fashion.  Thank you
for thinking on him."

"Eh, Mary!" said Mrs. Davenport in a low voice, "whatten's all I can
do, to what he's done for me and mine?  But, Mary, sure I can help
ye, for you'll be busy wi' this journey."

"Just help me wring these out, and then I'll take 'em to the
mangle."

So Mrs. Davenport became a listener to the conversation; and after a
while joined in.

"I'm sure, John Barton, if yo are taking messages to the Parliament
folk, yo'll not object to telling 'em what a sore trial it is, this
law o' theirs, keeping childer fra' factory work, whether they be
weakly or strong.  There's our Ben; why, porridge seems to go no way
wi' him, he eats so much; and I han gotten no money to send him t'
school, as I would like; and there he is, rampaging about the
streets a' day, getting hungrier and hungrier, and picking up a'
manner o' bad ways; and th' inspector won't let him in to work in
th' factory, because he's not right age; though he's twice as strong
as Sankey's little ritling* of a lad, as works till he cries for his
legs aching so, though he is right age, and better."

     *Ritling; probably a corruption of "ricketling," a child that
      suffers from the rickets--a weakling.

"I've one plan I wish to tell John Barton," said a pompous,
careful-speaking man, "and I should like him for to lay it afore the
Honourable House.  My mother comed out o' Oxfordshire, and were
under-laundry-maid in Sir Francis Dashwood's family; and when we
were little ones, she'd tell us stories of their grandeur: and one
thing she named were, that Sir Francis wore two shirts a day.  Now
he were all as one as a Parliament man; and many on 'em, I han no
doubt, are like extravagant.  Just tell 'em, John, do, that they'd
be doing the Lancashire weavers a great kindness, if they'd ha'
their shirts a' made o' calico; 't would make trade brisk, that
would, wi' the power o' shirts they wear."

Job Legh now put in his word.  Taking the pipe out of his mouth, and
addressing the last speaker, he said--

"I'll tell ye what, Bill, and no offence, mind ye; there's but
hundreds of them Parliament folk as wear so many shirts to their
back; but there's thousands and thousands o' poor weavers as han
only gotten one shirt i' the world; ay, and don't know where t' get
another when that rag's done, though they're turning out miles o'
calico every day; and many a mile o't is lying in warehouses,
stopping up trade for want o' purchasers.  Yo take my advice, John
Barton, and ask Parliament to set trade free, so as workmen can earn
a decent wage, and buy their two, ay and three, shirts a year; that
would make weaving brisk."

He put his pipe in his mouth again, and redoubled his puffing, to
make up for lost time.

"I'm afeard, neighbours," said John Barton, "I've not much chance o'
telling 'em all yo say; what I think on, is just speaking out about
the distress that they say is nought.  When they hear o' children
born on wet flags, without a rag t' cover 'em or a bit o' food for
th' mother; when they hear of folk lying down to die i' th' streets,
or hiding their want i' some hole o' a cellar till death come to set
'em free; and when they hear o' all this plague, pestilence, and
famine, they'll surely do somewhat wiser for us than we can guess at
now.  Howe'er, I han no objection, if so be there's an opening, to
speak up for what yo say; anyhow, I'll do my best, and yo see now,
if better times don't come after Parliament knows all."

Some shook their heads, but more looked cheery: and then one by
one dropped off, leaving John and his daughter alone.

"Didst thou mark how poorly Jane Wilson looked?" asked he, as they
wound up their hard day's work by a supper eaten over the fire,
which glowed and glimmered through the room, and formed their only
light.

"No, I can't say as I did.  But she's never rightly held up her head
since the twins died; and all along she has never been a strong
woman."

"Never sin' her accident.  Afore that I mind her looking as fresh
and likely a girl as e'er a one in Manchester."

"What accident, father?"

"She cotched* her side again a wheel.  It were afore wheels were
boxed up.  It were just when she were to have been married, and many
a one thought George would ha' been off his bargain; but I knew he
wern't the chap for that trick.  Pretty near the first place she
went to when she were able to go about again, was th' Oud Church;
poor wench, all pale and limping, she went up the aisle, George
holding her up as tender as a mother, and walking as slow as e'er he
could, not to hurry her, though there were plenty enow of rude lads
to cast their jests at him and her.  Her face were white like a
sheet when she came in church, but afore she got to th' altar she
were all one flush.  But for a' that it's been a happy marriage, and
George has stuck by me through life like a brother.  He'll never
hold up his head again if he loses Jane.  I didn't like her looks
to-night."

     *Cotched; caught.

And so he went to bed, the fear of forthcoming sorrow to his friend
mingling with his thoughts of to-morrow, and his hopes for the
future.

Mary watched him set off, with her hands over her eyes to shade them
from the bright slanting rays of the morning sun, and then she
turned into the house to arrange its disorder before going to her
work.  She wondered if she should like or dislike the evening and
morning solitude; for several hours when the clock struck she
thought of her father, and wondered where he was; she made good
resolutions according to her lights; and by-and-bye came the
distractions and events of the broad full day to occupy her with the
present, and to deaden the memory of the absent.

One of Mary's resolutions was, that she would not be persuaded or
induced to see Mr. Harry Carson during her father's absence.  There
was something crooked in her conscience after all; for this very
resolution seemed an acknowledgment that it was wrong to meet him at
any time; and yet she had brought herself to think her conduct quite
innocent and proper, for although unknown to her father, and
certain, even did he know it, to fail of obtaining his sanction, she
esteemed her love-meetings with Mr. Carson as sure to end in her
fathers good and happiness.  But now that he was away, she would do
nothing that he would disapprove of; no, not even though it was for
his own good in the end.

Now, amongst Miss Simmonds' young ladies was one who had been from
the beginning a confidante in Mary's love affair, made so by Mr.
Carson himself.  He had felt the necessity of some third person to
carry letters and messages, and to plead his cause when he was
absent.  In a girl named Sally Leadbitter he had found a willing
advocate.  She would have been willing to have embarked in a love
affair herself (especially a clandestine one), for the mere
excitement of the thing; but her willingness was strengthened by
sundry half-sovereigns, which from time to time Mr. Carson bestowed
upon her.

Sally Leadbitter was vulgar-minded to the last degree; never easy
unless her talk was of love and lovers; in her eyes it was an honour
to have had a long list of wooers.  So constituted, it was a pity
that Sally herself was but a plain, red-haired, freckled girl; never
likely, one would have thought, to become a heroine on her own
account.  But what she lacked in beauty she tried to make up for by
a kind of witty boldness, which gave her what her betters would have
called piquancy.  Considerations of modesty or propriety never
checked her utterance of a good thing.  She had just talent enough
to corrupt others.  Her very good nature was an evil influence.
They could not hate one who was so kind; they could not avoid one
who was so willing to shield them from scrapes by any exertion of
her own; whose ready fingers would at any time make up for their
deficiencies, and whose still more convenient tongue would at any
time invent for them.  The Jews, or Mohammedans (I forget which),
believe that there is one little bone of our body,--one of the
vertebrae, if I remember rightly,--which will never decay and turn
to dust, but will lie incorrupt and indestructible in the ground
until the Last Day: this is the Seed of the Soul.  The most
depraved have also their Seed of the Holiness that shall one day
overcome their evil; their one good quality, lurking hidden, but
safe, among all the corrupt and bad.

Sally's seed of the future soul was her love for her mother, an aged
bedridden woman.  For her she had self-denial; for her, her good-
nature rose into tenderness; to cheer her lonely bed, her spirits,
in the evenings, when her body was often woefully tired, never
flagged, but were ready to recount the events of the day, to turn
them into ridicule, and to mimic, with admirable fidelity, any
person gifted with an absurdity who had fallen under her keen eye.
But the mother was lightly principled like Sally herself; nor was
there need to conceal from her the reason why Mr. Carson gave her so
much money.  She chuckled with pleasure, and only hoped that the
wooing would be long a-doing.

Still neither she, nor her daughter, nor Harry Carson liked this
resolution of Mary, not to see him during her father's absence.

One evening (and the early summer evenings were long and bright
now), Sally met Mr. Carson by appointment, to be charged with a
letter for Mary, imploring her to see him, which Sally was to back
with all her powers of persuasion.  After parting from him she
determined, as it was not so very late, to go at once to Mary's, and
deliver the message and letter.

She found Mary in great sorrow.  She had just heard of George
Wilson's sudden death: her old friend, her father's friend, Jem's
father--all his claims came rushing upon her.  Though not guarded
from unnecessary sight or sound of death, as the children of the
rich are, yet it had so often been brought home to her this last
three or four months.  It was so terrible thus to see friend after
friend depart.  Her father, too, who had dreaded Jane Wilson's death
the evening before he set off.  And she, the weakly, was left
behind, while the strong man was taken.  At any rate the sorrow her
father had so feared for him was spared.  Such were the thoughts
which came over her.

She could not go to comfort the bereaved, even if comfort were in
her power to give; for she had resolved to avoid Jem; and she felt
that this of all others was not the occasion on which she could keep
up a studiously cold manner.

And in this shock of grief, Sally Leadbitter was the last person she
wished to see.  However, she rose to welcome her, betraying her
tear-swollen face.

"Well, I shall tell Mr. Carson to-morrow how you're fretting for
him; it's no more nor he's doing for you, I can tell you."

"For him, indeed!" said Mary, with a toss of her pretty head.

"Ay, miss, for him!  You've been sighing as if your heart would
break now for several days, over your work; now arn't you a little
goose not to go and see one who I am sure loves you as his life, and
whom you love; 'How much, Mary?'  'This much,' as the children say"
(opening her arms very wide).

"Nonsense," said Mary, pouting; "I often think I don't love him at
all."

"And I'm to tell him that, am I, next time I see him?" asked Sally.

"If you like," replied Mary.  "I'm sure I don't care for that or
anything else now"; weeping afresh.

But Sally did not like to be the bearer of any such news.  She saw
she had gone on the wrong tack, and that Mary's heart was too full
to value either message or letter as she ought.  So she wisely
paused in their delivery and said, in a more sympathetic tone than
she had hitherto used--

"Do tell me, Mary, what's fretting you so?  You know I never could
abide to see you cry."

"George Wilson's dropped down dead this afternoon," said Mary,
fixing her eyes for one minute on Sally, and the next hiding her
face in her apron as she sobbed anew.

"Dear, dear!  All flesh is grass; here to-day and gone tomorrow, as
the Bible says.  Still he was an old man, and not good for much;
there's better folk than him left behind.  Is th' canting old maid
as was his sister alive yet?"

"I don't know who you mean," said Mary sharply; for she did know,
and did not like to have her dear, simple Alice so spoken of.

"Come, Mary, don't be so innocent.  Is Miss Alice Wilson alive,
then; will that please you?  I haven't seen her hereabouts lately."

"No, she's left living here.  When the twins died, she thought she
could, maybe, be of use to her sister, who was sadly cast down, and
Alice thought she could cheer her up; at any rate she could listen
to her when her heart grew overburdened; so she gave up her cellar
and went to live with them."

"Well, good go with her.  I'd no fancy for her, and I'd no fancy for
her making my pretty Mary into a Methodee."

"She wasn't a Methodee; she was Church o' England."

"Well, well, Mary, you're very particular.  You know what I meant.
Look, who is this letter from?" holding up Henry Carson's letter.

"I don't know, and don't care," said Mary, turning very red.

"My eye! as if I didn't know you did know and did care."

"Well, give it me," said Mary impatiently, and anxious in her
present mood for her visitor's departure.

Sally relinquished it unwillingly.  She had, however, the pleasure
of seeing Mary dimple and blush as she read the letter, which seemed
to say the writer was not indifferent to her.

"You must tell him I can't come," said Mary, raising her eyes at
last.  "I have said I won't meet him while father is away, and I
won't."

"But, Mary, he does so look for you.  You'd be quite sorry for him,
he's so put out about not seeing you.  Besides, you go when your
father's at home, without letting on* to him, and what harm would
there be in going now?"

     *Letting on; informing.  In Anglo-Saxon one meaning of "laetan"
      was "to admit," and we say "to let out the secret."

"Well, Sally, you know my answer, I won't; and I won't."

"I'll tell him to come and see you himself some evening, instead o'
sending me; he'd maybe find you not so hard to deal with."

Mary flashed up.

"If he dares to come here while father's away, I'll call the
neighbours in to turn him out, so don't be putting him up to that."

"Mercy on us! one would think you were the first girl that ever had
a lover; have you never heard what other girls do and think no shame
of?"

"Hush, Sally! that's Margaret Jennings at the door."

And in an instant Margaret was in the room.  Mary had begged Job
Legh to let her come and sleep with her.  In the uncertain firelight
you could not help noticing that she had the groping walk of a blind
person.

"Well, I must go, Mary," said Sally.  "And that's your last word?"

"Yes, yes; good-night."  She shut the door gladly on her unwelcome
visitor--unwelcome at that time at least.

"O Margaret, have ye heard this sad news about George Wilson?"

"Yes, that I have.  Poor creatures, they've been so tried lately.
Not that I think sudden death so bad a thing; it's easy, and there's
no terrors for him as dies.  For them as survives it's very hard.
Poor George! he were such a hearty-looking man."

"Margaret," said Mary, who had been closely observing her friend,
"thou'rt very blind to-night, arn't thou?  Is it wi' crying?  Your
eyes are so swollen and red."

"Yes, dear! but not crying for sorrow.  Han ye heard where I was
last night?"

"No; where?"

"Look here."  She held up a bright golden sovereign.  Mary opened
her large grey eyes with astonishment.

"I'll tell you all and how about it.  You see there's a gentleman
lecturing on music at th' Mechanics', and he wants folk to sing his
songs.  Well, last night the counter got a sore throat and couldn't
make a note.  So they sent for me.  Jacob Butterworth had said a
good word for me, and they asked me would I sing?  You may think I
was frightened, but I thought, Now or never, and said I'd do my
best.  So I tried o'er the songs wi' th' lecturer, and then th'
managers told me I were to make myself decent and be there by
seven."

"And what did you put on?" asked Mary.  "Oh, why didn't you come in
for my pretty pink gingham?"

"I did think on't; but you had na come home then.  No! I put on my
merino, as was turned last winter, and my white shawl, and did my
hair pretty tidy; it did well enough.  Well, but as I was saying, I
went at seven.  I couldn't see to read my music, but I took th'
paper in wi' me, to ha' something to do wi' my fingers.  Th' folks'
heads danced, as I stood as right afore 'em all as if I'd been going
to play at ball wi' 'em.  You may guess I felt squeamish, but mine
weren't the first song, and th' music sounded like a friend's voice
telling me to take courage.  So, to make a long story short, when it
were all o'er th' lecturer thanked me, and th' managers said as how
there never was a new singer so applauded (for they'd clapped and
stamped after I'd done, till I began to wonder how many pair o'
shoes they'd get through a week at that rate, let alone their
hands).  So I'm to sing again o' Thursday; and I got a sovereign
last night, and am to have half-a-sovereign every night th' lecturer
is at th' Mechanics'."

"Well, Margaret, I'm right glad to hear it."

"And I don't think you've heard the best bit yet.  Now that a way
seemed open to me, of not being a burden to any one, though it did
please God to make me blind, I thought I'd tell grandfather.  I only
tell'd him about the singing and the sovereign last night, for I
thought I'd not send him to bed wi' a heavy heart; but this morning
I telled him all."

"And how did he take it?"

"He's not a man of many words; and it took him by surprise like."

"I wonder at that; I've noticed it in your ways ever since you
telled me."

"Ay, that's it!  If I'd not telled you, and you'd seen me every day,
you'd not ha' noticed the little mite o' difference fra' day to
day."

"Well, but what did your grandfather say?"

"Why, Mary," said Margaret, half smiling, "I'm a bit loth to tell
yo, for unless yo knew grandfather's ways like me, yo'd think it
strange.  He was taken by surprise, and he said: 'Damn yo!'  Then
he began looking at his book as it were, and were very quiet, while
I telled him all about it; how I'd feared, and how downcast I'd
been; and how I were now reconciled to it, if it were th' Lord's
will; and how I hoped to earn money by singing; and while I were
talking, I saw great big tears come dropping on th' book; but in
course I never let on that I saw 'em.  Dear grandfather! and all day
long he's been quietly moving things out o' my way, as he thought
might trip me up, and putting things in my way as he thought I might
want; never knowing I saw and felt what he were doing; for, yo see,
he thinks I'm out and out blind, I guess--as I shall be soon."

Margaret sighed in spite of her cheerful and relieved tone.

Though Mary caught the sigh, she felt it was better to let it pass
without notice, and began, with the tact which true sympathy rarely
fails to supply, to ask a variety of questions respecting her
friend's musical debut, which tended to bring out more distinctly
how successful it had been.

"Why, Margaret," at length she exclaimed, "thou'lt become as famous,
maybe, as that grand lady fra' London as we see'd one night driving
up to th' concert-room door in her carriage."

"It looks very like it," said Margaret, with a smile.  "And be sure,
Mary, I'll not forget to give thee a lift now and then when that
comes about.  Nay, who knows, if thou'rt a good girl, but may-happen
I may make thee my lady's maid!  Wouldn't that be nice?  So I e'en
sing to myself th' beginning o' one o' my songs--

      'An' ye shall walk in silk attire,
       An' siller hae to spare.'"

"Nay, don't stop; or else give me something rather more new, for
somehow I never quite liked that part about thinking o' Donald
mair?"

"Well, though I'm a bit tired I don't care if I do.  Before I come I
were practising well-nigh upon two hours this one which I'm to sing
o' Thursday.  The lecturer said he were sure it would just suit me,
and I should do justice to it; and I should be right sorry to
disappoint him, he were so nice and encouraging like to me.  Eh!
Mary, what a pity there isn't more o' that way, and less scolding
and rating i' th' world!  It would go a vast deal further.  Beside,
some o' th' singers said, they were a'most certain that it were a
song o' his own, because he were so fidgety and particular about it,
and so anxious I should give it th' proper expression.  And that
makes me care still more.  Th' first verse, he said, were to be sung
'tenderly, but joyously!'  I'm afraid I don't quite hit that, but
I'll try.

     'What a single word can do!
      Thrilling all the heart-strings through,
      Calling forth fond memories,
      Raining round hope's melodies,
      Steeping all in one bright hue--
      What a single word can do !'

"Now it falls into th' minor key, and must be very sad-like.  I feel
as if I could do that better than t'other.

     'What a single word can do!
      Making life seem all untrue,
      Driving joy and hope away,
      Leaving not one cheering ray,
      Blighting every flower that grew--
      What a single word can do!'"

Margaret certainly made the most of this little song.  As a factory
worker, listening outside, observed, "She spun it reet* fine!"  And
if she only sang it at the Mechanics' with half the feeling she put
into it that night, the lecturer must have been hard to please if he
did not admit that his expectations were more than fulfilled.

When it was ended, Mary's looks told more than words could have done
what she thought of it; and partly to keep in a tear which would
fain have rolled out, she brightened into a laugh, and said, "For
certain th' carriage is coming.  So let us go and dream on it."

     *Reet; right; often used for "very."

IX.   BARTON'S LONDON EXPERIENCES.

"A life of self-indulgence is for us,
   A life of self-denial is for them;
 For us the streets, broad-built and populous,
   For them unhealthy corners, garrets dim,
   And cellars where the water-rat may swim!
 For us green paths refreshed by frequent rain,
   For them dark alleys where the dust lies grim!
 Not doomed by us to this appointed pain--
 God made us rich and poor--of what do these complain?"
                    --MRS. NORTON'S Child of the Islands.

The next evening it was a warm, pattering, incessant rain--just the
rain to waken up the flowers.  But in Manchester, where, alas! there
are no flowers, the rain had only a disheartening and gloomy effect;
the streets were wet and dirty, the drippings from the houses were
wet and dirty, and the people were wet and dirty.  Indeed, most kept
within doors; and there was an unusual silence of footsteps in the
little paved courts.

Mary had to change her clothes after her walk home; and had hardly
settled herself before she heard some one fumbling at the door.  The
noise continued long enough to allow her to get up, and go and open
it.  There stood--could it be? yes it was, her father!

Drenched and wayworn, there he stood!  He came in with no word to
Mary in return for her cheery and astonished greeting.  He sat down
by the fire in his wet things, unheeding.  But Mary would not let
him so rest.  She ran up and brought down his working-day clothes,
and went into the pantry to rummage up their little bit of provision
while he changed by the fire, talking all the while as gaily as she
could, though her father's depression hung like lead on her heart.

For Mary, in her seclusion at Miss Simmonds',--where the chief talk
was of fashions, and dress, and parties to be given, for which such
and such gowns would be wanted, varied with a slight-whispered
interlude occasionally about love and lovers--had not heard the
political news of the day; that Parliament had refused to listen to
the working-men, when they petitioned, with all the force of their
rough, untutored words, to be heard concerning the distress which
was riding, like the Conqueror on his Pale Horse, among the people;
which was crushing their lives out of them, and stamping woe-marks
over the land.

When he had eaten and was refreshed, they sat for some time in
silence; for Mary wished him to tell her what oppressed him so, yet
durst not ask.  In this she was wise; for when we are heavy-laden in
our hearts it falls in better with our humour to reveal our case in
our own way, and our own time.

Mary sat on a stool at her father's feet in old childish guise, and
stole her hand into his, while his sadness infected her, and she
"caught the trick of grief, and sighed," she knew not why.

"Mary, we mun speak to our God to hear us, for man will not hearken;
no, not now, when we weep tears o' blood."

In an instant Mary understood the fact, if not the details, that so
weighed down her father's heart.  She pressed his hand with silent
sympathy.  She did not know what to say, and was so afraid of
speaking wrongly, that she was silent.  But when his attitude had
remained unchanged for more than half-an-hour, his eyes gazing
vacantly and fixedly at the fire, no sound but now and then a deep-
drawn sigh to break the weary ticking of the clock, and the
drip-drop from the roof without, Mary could bear it no longer.
Anything to rouse her father.  Even bad news.

"Father, do you know George Wilson's dead?"  (Her hand was suddenly
and almost violently compressed.)  "He dropped down dead in Oxford
Road yester morning.  It's very sad, isn't it, father?"

Her tears were ready to flow as she looked up in her father's face
for sympathy.  Still the same fixed look of despair, not varied by
grief for the dead.

"Best for him to die," he said, in a low voice.

This was unbearable.  Mary got up under pretence of going to tell
Margaret that she need not come to sleep with her to-night, but
really to ask Job Legh to come and cheer her father.

She stopped outside the door.  Margaret was practising her singing,
and through the still night air her voice rang out, like that of an
angel--

     "Comfort ye, comfort ye, my people, saith your God."

The old Hebrew prophetic words fell like dew on Mary's heart.  She
could not interrupt.  She stood listening and "comforted," till the
little buzz of conversation again began, and then entered and told
her errand.

Both grandfather and grand-daughter rose instantly to fulfil her
request.

"He's just tired out, Mary," said old Job.  "He'll be a different
man to-morrow."

There is no describing the looks and tones that have power over an
aching, heavy-laden heart; but in an hour or so John Barton was
talking away as freely as ever, though all his talk ran, as was
natural, on the disappointment of his fond hope, of the forlorn hope
of many.

"Ay, London's a fine place," said he, "and finer folk live in it
than I ever thought on, or ever heerd tell on except in th'
storybooks.  They are having their good things now, that afterwards
they may be tormented."

Still at the old parable of Dives and Lazarus!  Does it haunt the
minds of the rich as it does those of the poor?

"Do tell us all about London, dear father," asked Mary, who was
sitting at her old post by her father's knee.

"How can I tell yo a' about it, when I never see'd one-tenth of it.
It's as big as six Manchesters, they telled me.  One-sixth may be
made up o' grand palaces, and three-sixths o' middling kind, and th'
rest o' holes o' iniquity and filth, such as Manchester knows nought
on, I'm glad to say."

"Well, father, but did you see the Queen?"

"I believe I didn't, though one day I thought I'd seen her many a
time.  You see," said he, turning to Job Legh, "there were a day
appointed for us to go to Parliament House.  We were most on us
biding at a public-house in Holborn, where they did very well for
us.  Th' morning of taking our petition we had such a spread for
breakfast as th' Queen hersel might ha' sitten down to.  I suppose
they thought we wanted putting in heart.  There were mutton kidneys,
and sausages, and broiled ham, and fried beef and onions; more like
a dinner nor a breakfast.  Many on our chaps though, I could see,
could eat but little.  Th' food stuck in their throats when they
thought o' them at home, wives and little ones, as had, maybe at
that very time, nought to eat.  Well, after breakfast, we were all
set to walk in procession, and a time it took to put us in order,
two and two, and the petition, as was yards long, carried by the
foremost pairs.  The men looked grave enough, yo may be sure and
such a set of thin, wan, wretched-looking chaps as they were!"

"Yourself is none to boast on."

"Ay, but I were fat and rosy to many a one.  Well, we walked on and
on through many a street, much the same as Deansgate.  We had to
walk slowly, slowly, for th' carriages an' cabs as thronged th'
streets.  I thought by-and-bye we should maybe get clear on 'em, but
as the streets grew wider they grew worse, and at last we were
fairly blocked up at Oxford Street.  We getten across it after a
while though, and my eyes! the grand streets we were in then!
They're sadly puzzled how to build houses though in London; there'd
be an opening for a good steady master builder there, as know'd his
business.  For yo see the houses are many on 'em built without any
proper shape for a body to live in; some on 'em they've after
thought would fall down, so they've stuck great ugly pillars out
before 'em.  And some on 'em (we thought they must be th' tailors'
sign) had getten stone men and women as wanted clothes stuck on 'em.
I were like a child, I forgot a' my errand in looking about me.  By
this it were dinner-time, or better, as we could tell by the sun,
right above our heads, and we were dusty and tired, going a step now
and a step then.  Well, at last we getten into a street grander nor
all, leading to th' Queen's palace, and there it were I thought I
saw th' Queen.  Yo've seen th' hearses wi' white plumes, Job?"

Job assented.

"Well, them undertaker folk are driving a pretty trade in London.
Well-nigh every lady we saw in a carriage had hired one o' them
plumes for the day, and had it niddle noddling on her head.  It were
the Queen's Drawing-room, they said, and the carriages went bowling
along towards her house, some wi' dressed-up gentlemen like circus
folk in 'em, and rucks* o' ladies in others.  Carriages themselves
were great shakes too.  Some o' the gentlemen as couldn't get inside
hung on behind, wi' nosegays to smell at, and sticks to keep off
folk as might splash their silk stockings.  I wonder why they didn't
hire a cab rather than hang on like a whip-behind boy; but I suppose
they wished to keep wi' their wives, Darby and Joan like.  Coachmen
were little squat men, wi' wigs like the oud-fashioned parsons'.
Well, we could na get on for these carriages, though we waited and
waited.  Th' horses were too fat to move quick; they never known
want o' food, one might tell by their sleek coats; and police pushed
us back when we tried to cross.  One or two of 'em struck wi' their
sticks, and coachmen laughed, and some officers as stood nigh put
their spy-glasses in their eye, and left 'em sticking there like
mountebanks.  One o' th' police struck me.  'Whatten business have
you to do that?' said I.

     *Rucks; a great quantity.

"'You're frightening them horses,' says he, in his mincing way (for
Londoners are mostly all tongue-tied, and can't say their a's and
i's properly, 'and it's our business to keep you from molesting the
ladies and gentlemen going to her Majesty's Drawing-room.'

"'And why are we to be molested?' asked I, 'going decently about our
business, which is life and death to us, and many a little one
clemming at home in Lancashire?  Which business is of most
consequence i' the sight o' God, think yo, ourn or them grand ladies
and gentlemen as yo think so much on?'

"But I might as well ha' held my peace, for he only laughed."

John ceased.  After waiting a little, to see if he would go on
himself, Job said--

"Well, but that's not a' your story, man.  Tell us what happened
when you got to th' Parliament House."

After a little pause, John answered--

"If you please, neighbour, I'd rather say nought about that.  It's
not to be forgotten, or forgiven either, by me or many another; but
I canna tell of our down-casting just as a piece of London news.  As
long as I live, our rejection of that day will abide in my heart;
and as long as I live I shall curse them as so cruelly refused to
hear us; but I'll not speak of it no* more."

     *A similar use of a double negative is frequent in Chaucer;
      as in the "Miller's Tale":
         "That of no wife toke he non offering
          For curtesie, he sayd, he n'old non."

So, daunted in their inquiries, they sat silent for a few minutes.

Old Job, however, felt that some one must speak, else all the good
they had done in dispelling John Barton's gloom was lost.  So after
a while he thought of a subject, neither sufficiently dissonant from
the last to jar on a full heart, nor too much the same to cherish
the continuance of the gloomy train of thought.

"Did you ever hear tell," said he to Mary, "that I were in London
once?"

"No!" said she with surprise, and looking at Job with increased
respect.

"Ay, but I were though, and Peg there too, though she minds nought
about it, poor wench!  You must know I had but one child, and she
were Margaret's mother.  I loved her above a bit, and one day when
she came (standing behind me for that I should not see her blushes,
and stroking my cheeks in her own coaxing way), and told me she and
Frank Jennings (as was a joiner lodging near us) should be so happy
if they were married, I could not find in my heart t' say her nay,
though I went sick at the thought of losing her away from my home.
However, she was my only child, and I never said nought of what I
felt, for fear o' grieving her young heart.  But I tried to think o'
the time when I'd been young mysel, and had loved her blessed
mother, and how we'd left father and mother, and gone out into th'
world together, and I'm now right thankful I held my peace, and
didna fret her wi' telling her how sore I was at parting wi' her
that were the light o' my eyes."

"But," said Mary, "you said the young man were a neighbour."

"Ay, so he were, and his father afore him.  But work were rather
slack in Manchester, and Frank's uncle sent him word o' London work
and London wages, so he were to go there, and it were there Margaret
was to follow him.  Well, my heart aches yet at thought of those
days.  She so happy, and he so happy; only the poor father as
fretted sadly behind their backs.  They were married and stayed some
days wi' me afore setting off; and I've often thought sin',
Margaret's heart failed her many a time those few days, and she
would fain ha' spoken; but I knew fra' mysel it were better to keep
it pent up, and I never let on what I were feeling.  I knew what she
meant when she came kissing, and holding my hand, and all her old
childish ways o' loving me.  Well, they went at last.  You know them
two letters, Margaret?"

"Yes, sure," replied his grand-daughter.

"Well, them two were the only letters I ever had fra' her, poor
lass.  She said in them she were very happy, and I believe she were.
And Frank's family heard he were in good work.  In one o' her
letters, poor thing, she ends wi' saying, 'Farewell, Grandad!' wi' a
line drawn under grandad, and fra' that an' other hints I knew she
were in th' family way; and I said nought, but I screwed up a
little money, thinking come Whitsuntide I'd take a holiday and go
and see her an' th' little one.  But one day towards Whitsuntide,
comed Jennings wi' a grave face, and says he, 'I hear our Frank and
your Margaret's both getten the fever.'  You might ha' knocked me
down wi' a straw, for it seemed as if God told me what th' upshot
would be.  Old Jennings had gotten a letter, you see, fra' the
landlady they lodged wi'; a well-penned letter, asking if they'd no
friends to come and nurse them.  She'd caught it first, and Frank,
who was as tender o'er her as her own mother could ha' been, had
nursed her till he'd caught it himsel; and she expecting her down-
lying* everyday.  Well, t' make a long story short, old Jennings and
I went up by that night's coach.  So you see, Mary, that was the way
I got to London."

     *Down-lying; lying in.

"But how was your daughter when you got there?" asked Mary
anxiously.

"She were at rest, poor wench, and so were Frank.  I guessed as much
when I see'd th' landlady's face, all swelled wi' crying, when she
opened th' door to us.  We said, 'Where are they?' and I knew they
were dead, fra' her look; but Jennings didn't, as I take it; for
when she showed us into a room wi' a white sheet on th' bed, and
underneath it, plain to be seen, two still figures, he screeched out
as if he'd been a woman.

"Yet he'd other children and I'd none.  There lay my darling, my
only one.  She were dead, and there were no one to love me, no, not
one.  I disremember* rightly what I did; but I know I were very
quiet, while my heart were crushed within me.

     *Disremember; forget.

"Jennings could na' stand being in the room at all, so the landlady
took him down, and I were glad to be alone.  It grew dark while I
sat there; and at last th' landlady came up again, and said, 'Come
here.'  So I got up, and walked into the light, but I had to hold by
th' stair-rails, I were so weak and dizzy.  She led me into a room,
where Jennings lay on a sofa fast asleep, wi' his pocket-
handkerchief over his head for a night-cap.  She said he'd cried
himself fairly off to sleep.  There were tea on th' table all ready;
for she were a kind-hearted body.  But she still said, 'Come here,'
and took hold o' my arm.  So I went round the table, and there were
a clothes-basket by th' fire, wi' a shawl put o'er it.  'Lift that
up,' says she, and I did; and there lay a little wee babby fast
asleep.  My heart gave a leap, and th' tears comed rushing into my
eyes first time that day.  'Is it hers?' said I, though I knew it
were.  'Yes,' said she.  'She were getting a bit better o' the
fever, and th' babby were born; and then the poor young man took
worse and died, and she were not many hours behind.'

"Little mite of a thing! and yet it seemed her angel come back to
comfort me.  I were quite jealous o' Jennings whenever he went near
the babby.  I thought it were more my flesh and blood than his'n,
and yet I were afraid he would claim it.  However, that were far
enough fra' his thoughts; he'd plenty other childer, and, as I found
out after, he'd all along been wishing me to take it.  Well, we
buried Margaret and her husband in a big, crowded, lonely churchyard
in London.  I were loath to leave them there, as I thought, when
they rose again, they'd feel so strange at first away fra'
Manchester, and all old friends; but it could na be helped.  Well,
God watches o'er their graves there as well as here.  That funeral
cost a mint o' money, but Jennings and I wished to do th' thing
decent.  Then we'd the stout little babby to bring home.  We'd not
overmuch money left; but it were fine weather, and we thought we'd
take th' coach to Brummagem, and walk on.  It were a bright May
morning when I last saw London town, looking back from a big hill a
mile or two off.  And in that big mass o' a place I were leaving my
blessed child asleep--in her last sleep.  Well, God's will be done!
She's gotten to heaven afore me; but I shall get there at last,
please God, though it's a long while first.

"The babby had been fed afore we set out, and th' coach moving kept
it asleep, bless its little heart!  But when th' coach stopped for
dinner it were awake, and crying for its pobbies.*  So we asked for
some bread and milk, and Jennings took it first for to feed it, but
it made its mouth like a square, and let it run out at each o' the
four corners.  'Shake it, Jennings,' says I; 'that's the way they
make water run through a funnel, when it's o'er full; and a child's
mouth is broad end o' th' funnel, and th' gullet the narrow one.'
So he shook it, but it only cried th' more.  'Let me have it,' says
I, thinking he were an awkward oud chap.  But it were just as bad
wi' me.  By shaking th' babby we got better nor a gill into its
mouth, but more nor that came up again, wetting a' th' nice dry
clothes landlady had put on.  Well, just as we'd gotten to th'
dinner-table, and helped oursels, and eaten two mouthful, came in
th' guard, and a fine chap wi' a sample of calico flourishing in his
hand.  'Coach is ready!' says one; 'Half-a-crown your dinner!' says
the other.  Well, we thought it a deal for both our dinners, when
we'd hardly tasted 'em; but, bless your life, it were half-a-crown
apiece, and a shilling for th' bread and milk as were possetted all
over babby's clothes.  We spoke up again** it; but everybody said it
were the rule, so what could two poor oud chaps like us do again it?
Well, poor babby cried without stopping to take breath, fra' that
time till we got to Brummagem for the night.  My heart ached for th'
little thing.  It caught wi' its wee mouth at our coat sleeves and
at our mouths, when we tried t' comfort it by talking to it.  Poor
little wench! it wanted its mammy, as were lying cold in th' grave.
'Well,' says I, 'it'll be clemmed to death, if it lets out its
supper as it did its dinner.  Let's get some woman to feed it; it
comes natural to women to do for babbies.'  So we asked th'
chambermaid at the inn, and she took quite kindly to it; and we got
a good supper, and grew rare and sleepy, what wi' th' warmth and wi'
our long ride i' the open air.  Th' chambermaid said she would like
t' have it t' sleep wi' her, only missis would scold so; but it
looked so quiet and smiling like, as it lay in her arms, that we
thought 't would be no trouble to have it wi' us.  I says: 'See,
Jennings, how women folk do quieten babbies; it's just as I said.'
He looked grave; he were always thoughtful-looking, though I never
heard him say anything very deep.  At last says he--

"'Young woman! have you gotten a spare nightcap?'

"'Missis always keeps nightcaps for gentlemen as does not like to
unpack,' says she, rather quick.

     *"Pobbies," or "pobs," child's porridge.
    **"Again," for against.  "He that is not with me, he is ageyn me."
                              --Wickliffe's Version.

"'Ay, but young woman, it's one of your nightcaps I want.  Th' babby
seems to have taken a mind to yo; and maybe in th' dark it might
take me for yo if I'd getten your nightcap on.'

"The chambermaid smirked and went for a cap, but I laughed outright
at th' oud bearded chap thinking he'd make hissel like a woman just
by putting on a woman's cap.  Howe'er he'd not be laughed out on't,
so I held th' babby till he were in bed.  Such a night as we had on
it!  Babby began to scream o' th' oud fashion, and we took it turn
and turn about to sit up and rock it.  My heart were very sore for
the little one, as it groped about wi' its mouth; but for a' that I
could scarce keep fra' smiling at th' thought o' us two oud chaps,
th' one wi' a woman's nightcap on, sitting on our hinder ends for
half the night, hushabying a babby as wouldn't be hushabied.  Toward
morning, poor little wench! it fell asleep, fairly tired out wi'
crying, but even in its sleep it gave such pitiful sobs, quivering
up fra' the very bottom of its little heart, that once or twice I
almost wished it lay on its mother's breast, at peace for ever.
Jennings fell asleep too; but I began for to reckon up our money.
It were little enough we had left, our dinner the day afore had
ta'en so much.  I didn't know what our reckoning would be for that
night lodging, and supper, and breakfast.  Doing a sum always sent
me asleep ever sin' I were a lad; so I fell sound in a short time,
and were only wakened by chambermaid tapping at th' door, to say
she'd dress the babby before her missis were up if we liked.  But
bless yo, we'd never thought o' undressing it the night afore, and
now it were sleeping so sound, and we were so glad o' the peace and
quietness, that we thought it were no good to waken it up to screech
again.

"Well! (there's Mary asleep for a good listener!) I suppose you're
getting weary of my tale, so I'll not be long over ending it.  Th'
reckoning left us very bare, and we thought we'd best walk home, for
it were only sixty mile, they telled us, and not stop again for
nought, save victuals.  So we left Brummagem (which is as black a
place as Manchester, without looking so like home), and walked a'
that day, carrying babby turn and turn about.  It were well fed by
chambermaid afore we left, and th' day were fine, and folk began to
have some knowledge o' th' proper way o' speaking, and we were more
cheery at thought o' home (though mine, God knows, were lonesome
enough).  We stopped none for dinner, but at baggin-time* we getten
a good meal at a public-house, an' fed th' babby as well as we
could, but that were but poorly.  We got a crust too for it to
suck--chambermaid put us up to that.  That night, whether we were
tired or whatten, I don't know, but it were dree** work, and th'
poor little wench had slept out her sleep, and began th' cry as wore
my heart out again.  Says Jennings, says he--

"'We should na ha' set out so like gentlefolk a top o' the coach
yesterday.'

     *Baggin-time; time of the evening meal.
    **Dree; long and tedious.  Anglo-Saxon, "dreogan," to suffer, to
      endure.

"'Nay, lad!  We should ha' had more to walk if we had na ridden, and
I'm sure both you and I'se* weary o' tramping.'

     *"I have not been, nor IS, nor never schal."--Wickliffe's Apology,
       p. I.

"So he were quiet a bit.  But he were one o' them as were sure to
find out somewhat had been done amiss when there were no going back
to undo it.  So presently he coughs, as if he were going to speak,
and I says to myself, 'At it again, my lad.'  Says he--

"'I ax pardon, neighbour, but it strikes me it would ha' been better
for my son if he had never begun to keep company wi' your daughter.'

"Well! that put me up, and my heart got very full, and but that I
were carrying HER babby, I think I should ha' struck him.  At last I
could hold in no longer, and says I--

"'Better say at once it would ha' been better for God never to ha'
made th' world, for then we'd never ha' been in it, to have had th'
heavy hearts we have now.'

"Well! he said that were rank blasphemy; but I thought his way of
casting up again th' events God had pleased to send, were worse
blasphemy.  Howe'er, I said nought more angry, for th' little
babby's sake, as were th' child o' his dead son, as well as o' my
dead daughter.

"Th' longest lane will have a turning, and that night came to an end
at last; and we were footsore and tired enough, and to my mind the
babby were getting weaker and weaker, and it wrung my heart to hear
its little wail!  I'd ha' given my right hand for one of yesterday's
hearty cries.  We were wanting our breakfasts, and so were it too,
motherless babby!  We could see no public-houses, so about six
o'clock (only we thought it were later) we stopped at a cottage,
where a woman were moving about near th' open door.  Says I, 'Good
woman, may we rest us a bit?'  'Come in,' says she, wiping a chair,
as looked bright enough afore, wi' her apron.  It were a cheery,
clean room; and we were glad to sit down again, though I thought my
legs would never bend at th' knees.  In a minute she fell a noticing
th' babby, and took it in her arms, and kissed it again and again.
'Missis,' says I, 'we're not without money and if yo'd give us
somewhat for breakfast, we'd pay yo honest, and if yo would wash and
dress that poor babby, and get some pobbies down its throat, for
it's well-nigh clemmed, I'd pray for you till my dying day.'  So she
said nought but gived me th' babby back, and afore you could say
Jack Robinson, she'd a pan on th' fire, and bread and cheese on th'
table.  When she turned round, her face looked red, and her lips
were tight pressed together.  Well! we were right down glad on our
breakfast, and God bless and reward that woman for her kindness that
day!  She fed th' poor babby as gently and softly, and spoke to it
as tenderly as its own poor mother could ha' done.  It seemed as if
that stranger and it had known each other afore, maybe in heaven,
where folk's spirits come from, they say; th' babby looked up so
lovingly in her eyes, and made little noises more like a dove than
aught else.  Then she undressed it (poor darling! it were time),
touching it so softly; and washed it from head to foot; and as many
on its clothes were dirty, and what bits o' things its mother had
gotten ready for it had been sent by th' carrier fra' London, she
put 'em aside; and wrapping little naked babby in her apron, she
pulled out a key, as were fastened to a black ribbon, and hung down
her breast, and unlocked a drawer in th' dresser.  I were sorry to
be prying, but I could na help seeing in that drawer some little
child's clothes, all strewed wi' lavender, and lying by 'em a little
whip an' a broken rattle.  I began to have an insight into that
woman's heart then.  She took out a thing or two and locked the
drawer, and went on dressing babby.  Just about then come her
husband down, a great big fellow as didn't look half awake, though
it were getting late; but he'd heard all as had been said
downstairs, as were plain to be seen; but he were a gruff chap.
We'd finished our breakfast, and Jennings were looking hard at th'
woman as she were getting the babby to sleep wi' a sort of rocking
way.  At length says he, 'I ha' learnt th' way now; it's two jiggits
and a shake, two jiggits and a shake.  I can get that babby asleep
now mysel.'

"The man had nodded cross enough to us, and had gone to th' door,
and stood there, whistling wi' his hands in his breeches-pockets,
looking abroad.  But at last he turns and says, quite sharp--

"'I say, missis, I'm to have no breakfast to-day, I s'pose.'

"So wi' that she kissed th' child, a long, soft kiss, and looking in
my face to see if I could take her meaning, gave me th' babby
without a word.  I were loath to stir, but I saw it were better to
go.  So giving Jennings a sharp nudge (for he'd fallen asleep), I
says, 'Missis, what's to pay?' pulling out my money wi' a jingle
that she might na guess we were at all bare o' cash.  So she looks
at her husband, who said ne'er a word, but were listening with all
his ears nevertheless; and when she saw he would na say, she said,
hesitating, as if  pulled two ways, by her fear o' him, 'Should you
think sixpence over much?'  It were so different to public-house
reckoning, for we'd eaten a main deal afore the chap came down.  So
says I, 'And, missis, what should we gi' you for the babby's bread
and milk?'  (I had it once in my mind to say 'and for a' your
trouble with it,' but my heart would na let me say it, for I could
read in her ways how it had been a work o' love).  So says she,
quite quick, and stealing a look at her husband's back, as looked
all ear, if ever a back did, 'Oh, we could take nought for the
little babby's food, if it had eaten twice as much, bless it.'  Wi'
that he looked at her; such a scowling look!  She knew what he
meant, and stepped softly across the floor to him, and put her hand
on his arm.  He seem'd as though he'd shake it off by a jerk on his
elbow, but she said quite low, 'For poor little Johnnie's sake,
Richard.'  He did not move or speak again, and after looking in his
face for a minute, she turned away, swallowing deep in her throat.
She kissed th' sleeping babby as she passed, when I paid her.  To
quieten th' gruff husband, and stop him if he rated her, I could na
help slipping another sixpence under th' loaf, and then we set off
again.  Last look I had o' that woman she were quietly wiping her
eyes wi' the corner of her apron, as she went about her husband's
breakfast.  But I shall know her in heaven."

He stopped to think of that long ago May morning, when he had
carried his grand-daughter under the distant hedgerows and beneath
the flowering sycamores.

"There's nought more to say, wench," said he to Margaret, as she
begged him to go on.  "That night we reached Manchester, and I'd
found out that Jennings would be glad enough to give up babby to me,
so I took her home at once, and a blessing she's been to me."

They were all silent for a few minutes; each following out the
current of their thoughts.  Then, almost simultaneously, their
attention fell upon Mary.  Sitting on her little stool, her head
resting on her father's knee, and sleeping as soundly as any infant,
her breath (still like an infant's) came and went as softly as a
bird steals to her leafy nest.  Her half-open mouth was as scarlet
as the winter-berries, and contrasted finely with the clear paleness
of her complexion, where the eloquent blood flushed carnation at
each motion.  Her black eye-lashes lay on the delicate cheek, which
was still more shaded by the masses of her golden hair, that seemed
to form a nest-like pillar for her as she lay.  Her father in fond
pride straightened one glossy curl, for an instant, as if to display
its length and silkiness.

The little action awoke her, and, like nine out of ten people in
similar circumstances, she exclaimed, opening her eyes to their
fullest extent--

"I'm not asleep.  I've been awake all the time."

Even her father could not keep from smiling, and Job Legh and
Margaret laughed outright.

"Come, wench," said Job, "don't look so gloppened* because thou'st
fallen asleep while an oud chap like me was talking on oud times.
It were like enough to send thee to sleep.  Try if thou canst keep
thine eyes open while I read thy father a bit on a poem as is
written by a weaver like oursel.  A rare chap I'll be bound is he
who could weave verse like this."

     *Gloppened; amazed, frightened.

So adjusting his spectacles on nose, cocking his chin, crossing his
legs, and coughing to clear his voice, he read aloud a little poem
of Samuel Bamford's* he had picked up somewhere.

     *The fine-spirited author of 'Passages in the Life of a Radical'--
      a man who illustrates his order, and shows what nobility may be
      in a cottage.

     God help the poor, who, on this wintry morn,
        Come forth from alleys dim and courts obscure.
     God help yon poor pale girl, who droops forlorn,
        And meekly her affliction doth endure;
     God help her, outcast lamb; she trembling stands,
     All wan her lips, and frozen red her hands
     Her sunken eyes are modestly downcast,
     Her night-black hair streams on the fitful blast;
     Her bosom, passing fair, is half revealed,
     And oh! so cold, the snow lies there congealed;
     Her feet benumbed, her shoes all rent and worn,
     God help thee, outcast lamb, who standst forlorn!
                                    God help the poor!

     God help the poor!  An infant's feeble wail
        Comes from yon narrow gateway, and behold!
     A female crouching there, so deathly pale,
        Huddling her child, to screen it from the cold;
     Her vesture scant, her bonnet crushed and torn;
        A thin shawl doth her baby dear enfold.
     And so she 'bides the ruthless gale of morn,
        Which almost to her heart hath sent its cold.
     And now she, sudden, darts a ravening look,
     As one, with new hot bread, goes past the nook;
     And, as the tempting load is onward borne,
     She weeps.  God help thee, helpless one, forlorn!
                                    God help the poor!

     God help the poor!  Behold yon famished lad,
        No shoes, nor hose, his wounded feet protect;
     With limping gait, and looks so dreamy sad,
        He wanders onward, stopping to inspect
     Each window stored with articles of food.
        He yearns but to enjoy one cheering meal;
     Oh! to the hungry palate viands rude
        Would yield a zest the famished only feel!
     He now devours a crust of mouldy bread;
        With teeth and hands the precious boon is torn
     Unmindful of the storm that round his head
        Impetuous sweeps.  God help thee, child forlorn!
                                      God help the poor!

     God help the poor!  Another have I found--
        A bowed and venerable man is he;
     His slouch-ed hat with faded crape is bound;
        His coat is grey, and threadbare too, I see.
     "The rude winds" seem "to mock his hoary hair":
     His shirtless bosom to the blast is bare.
     Anon he turns and casts a wistful eye,
        And with scant napkin wipes the blinding spray,
     And looks around, as if he fain would spy
        Friends he had feasted in his better day:
     Ah! some are dead: and some have long forborne
     To know the poor; and he is left forlorn!
                                      God help the poor!

     God help the poor, who in lone valleys dwell,
        Or by far hills, where whin and heather grow;
     Theirs is a story sad indeed to tell;
        Yet little cares the world, and less 't would know
        About the toil and want men undergo.
     The wearying loom doth call them up at morn;
        They work till worn-out nature sinks to sleep;
        They taste, but are not fed.  The snow drifts deep
        Around the fireless cot, and blocks the door;
        The night-storm howls a dirge across the moor;
     And shall they perish thus--oppressed and lorn?
     Shall toil and famine, hopeless, still be borne?
        No! God will yet arise and help the poor!

"Amen!" said Barton, solemnly and sorrowfully.  "Mary! wench,
couldst thou copy me them lines, dost think?--that's to say, if Job
there has no objection."

"Not I.  More they're heard and read and the better, say I."

So Mary took the paper.  And the next day, on a blank half-sheet of
a valentine, all bordered with hearts and darts--a valentine she had
once suspected to come from Jem Wilson--she copied Bamford's
beautiful little poem.

X.   RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL.

     "My heart, once soft as woman's tear, is gnarled
      With gloating on the ills I cannot cure."
                                            --ELLIOTT.

     "Then guard and shield her innocence,
        Let her not fall like me;
     'T were better, oh! a thousand times,
        She in her grave should be."
                                        --The Outcast.

Despair settled down like a heavy cloud; and now and then, through
the dead calm of sufferings, came pipings of stormy winds,
foretelling the end of these dark prognostics.  In times of
sorrowful or fierce endurance, we are often soothed by the mere
repetition of old proverbs which tell the experience of our
forefathers; but now, "it's a long lane that has no turning," "the
weariest day draws to an end," etc., seemed false and vain sayings,
so long and so weary was the pressure of the terrible times.  Deeper
and deeper still sank the poor.  It showed how much lingering
suffering it takes to kill men, that so few (in comparison) died
during those times.  But remember! we only miss those who do men's
work in their humble sphere; the aged, the feeble, the children,
when they die, are hardly noted by the world; and yet to many
hearts, their deaths make a blank which long years will never fill
up.  Remember, too, that though it may take much suffering to kill
the able-bodied and effective members of society, it does NOT take
much to reduce them to worn, listless, diseased creatures, who
thenceforward crawl through life with moody hearts and pain-stricken
bodies.

The people had thought the poverty of the preceding years hard to
bear, and had found its yoke heavy; but this year added sorely to
its weight.  Former times had chastised them with whips, but this
chastised them with scorpions.

Of course, Barton had his share of mere bodily sufferings.  Before
he had gone up to London on his vain errand, he had been working
short time.  But in the hopes of speedy redress by means of the
interference of Parliament, he had thrown up his place; and now,
when he asked leave to resume his work, he was told they were
diminishing their number of hands every week, and he was made aware,
by the remarks of fellow-workmen, that a Chartist delegate, and a
leading member of a Trades' Union, was not likely to be favoured in
his search after employment.  Still he tried to keep up a brave
heart concerning himself.  He knew he could bear hunger; for that
power of endurance had been called forth when he was a little child,
and had seen his mother hide her daily morsel to share it among her
children, and when he, being the eldest, had told the noble lie,
that "he was not hungry, could not eat a bit more," in order to
imitate his mother's bravery, and still the sharp wail of the
younger infants.  Mary, too, was secure of two meals a day at Miss
Simmonds'; though, by the way, the dressmaker too, feeling the
effect of bad times, had left off giving tea to her apprentices,
setting them the example of long abstinence by putting off her own
meal till work was done for the night, however late that might be.

But the rent!  It was half-a-crown a week--nearly all Mary's
earnings--and much less room might do for them, only two.--(Now came
the time to be thankful that the early dead were saved from the evil
to come.)--The agricultural labourer generally has strong local
attachments; but they are far less common, almost obliterated, among
the inhabitants of a town.  Still there are exceptions, and Barton
formed one.  He had removed to his present house just after the last
bad times, when little Tom had sickened and died.  He had then
thought the bustle of a removal would give his poor stunned wife
something to do, and he had taken more interest in the details of
the proceeding than he otherwise would have done, in the hope of
calling her forth to action again.  So he seemed to know every
brass-headed nail driven up for her convenience.  Only one had been
displaced.  It was Esther's bonnet nail, which in his deep
revengeful anger against her, after his wife's death, he had torn
out of the wall, and cast into the street.  It would be hard work to
leave the house, which yet seemed hallowed by his wife's presence in
the happy days of old.  But he was a law unto himself, though
sometimes a bad, fierce law; and he resolved to give the
rent-collector notice, and look out for a cheaper abode, and tell
Mary they must flit.  Poor Mary! she loved the house, too.  It was
wrenching up her natural feelings of home, for it would be long
before the fibres of her heart would gather themselves about another
place.

This trial was spared.  The collector (of himself), on the very
Monday when Barton planned to give him notice of his intention to
leave, lowered the rent threepence a week, just enough to make
Barton compromise and agree to stay on a little longer.

But by degrees the house was stripped of all its little ornaments.
Some were broken; and the odd twopences and threepences, wanted to
pay for their repairs, were required for the far sterner necessity
of food.  And by-and-bye Mary began to part with other superfluities
at the pawn-shop.  The smart tea-tray and tea-caddy, long and
carefully kept, went for bread for her father.  He did not ask for
it, or complain, but she saw hunger in his shrunk, fierce, animal
look.  Then the blankets went, for it was summer time, and they
could spare them; and their sale made a fund, which Mary fancied
would last till better times came.  But it was soon all gone; and
then she looked around the room to crib it of its few remaining
ornaments.  To all these proceedings her father said never a word.
If he fasted, or feasted (after the sale of some article) on an
unusual meal of bread and cheese, he took all with a sullen
indifference, which depressed Mary's heart.  She often wished he
would apply for relief from the Guardians' relieving office; often
wondered the Trades' Union did nothing for him.  Once, when she
asked him as he sat, grimed, unshaven, and gaunt, after a day's
fasting, over the fire, why he did not get relief from the town, he
turned round, with grim wrath, and said, "I don't want money, child!
D--n their charity and their money!  I want work, and it is my
right.  I want work."

He would bear it all, he said to himself.  And he did bear it, but
not meekly; that was too much to expect.  Real meekness of character
is called out by experience of kindness.  And few had been kind to
him.  Yet through it all, with stern determination he refused the
assistance his Trades' Union would have given him.  It had not much
to give, but, with worldly wisdom, thought it better to propitiate
an active, useful member, than to help those who were more
unenergetic, though they had large families to provide for.  Not so
thought John Barton.  With him, need was right.

"Give it to Tom Darbyshire," he said.  "He's more claim on it than
me, for he's more need of it, with his seven children."

Now Tom Darbyshire was, in his listless, grumbling way, a back-
biting enemy of John Barton's.  And he knew it; but he was not to be
influenced by that in a matter like this.

Mary went early to her work; but her cheery laugh over it was now
missed by the other girls.  Her mind wandered over the present
distress, and then settled, as she stitched, on the visions of the
future, where yet her thoughts dwelt more on the circumstances of
ease, and the pomps and vanities awaiting her, than on the lover
with whom she was to share them.  Still she was not insensible to
the pride of having attracted one so far above herself in station;
not insensible to the secret pleasure of knowing that he, whom so
many admired, had often said he would give anything for one of her
sweet smiles.  Her love for him was a bubble, blown out of vanity;
but it looked very real and very bright.  Sally Leadbitter,
meanwhile, keenly observed the signs of the times; she found out
that Mary had begun to affix a stern value to money as the
"Purchaser of Life," and many girls had been dazzled and lured by
gold, even without the betraying love which she believed to exist in
Mary's heart.  So she urged young Mr. Carson, by representations of
the want she was sure surrounded Mary, to bring matters more to a
point.  But he had a kind of instinctive dread of hurting Mary's
pride of spirit, and durst not hint his knowledge in any way of the
distress that many must be enduring.  He felt that for the present
he must still be content with stolen meetings and summer evening
strolls, and the delight of pouring sweet honeyed words into her
ear, while she listened with a blush and a smile that made her look
radiant with beauty.  No; he would be cautious in order to be
certain; for Mary, one way or another, he must make his.  He had no
doubt of the effect of his own personal charms in the long run; for
he knew he was handsome, and believed himself fascinating.

If he had known what Mary's home was, he would not have been so much
convinced of his increasing influence over her, by her being more
and more ready to linger with him in the sweet summer air.  For when
she returned for the night her father was often out, and the house
wanted the cheerful look it had had in the days when money was never
wanted to purchase soap and brushes, black-lead and pipe-clay.  It
was dingy and comfortless; for, of course, there was not even the
dumb familiar home-friend, a fire.  And Margaret, too, was now very
often from home, singing at some of those grand places.  And Alice;
oh, Mary wished she had never left her cellar to go and live at
Ancoats with her sister-in-law.  For in that matter Mary felt very
guilty; she had put off and put off going to see the widow, after
George Wilson's death, from dread of meeting Jem, or giving him
reason to think she wished to be as intimate with him as formerly;
and now she was so much ashamed of her delay that she was likely
never to go at all.

If her father was at home it was no better; indeed, it was worse.
He seldom spoke, less than ever; and often when he did speak, they
were sharp angry words, such as he had never given her formerly.
Her temper was high, too, and her answers not over mild; and once in
his passion he had even beaten her.  If Sally Leadbitter or Mr.
Carson had been at hand at that moment, Mary would have been ready
to leave home for ever.  She sat alone, after her father had flung
out of the house, bitterly thinking on the days that were gone;
angry with her own hastiness, and believing that her father did not
love her; striving to heap up one painful thought on another.  Who
cared for her?  Mr. Carson might, but in this grief that seemed no
comfort.  Mother dead!  Father so often angry, so lately cruel (for
it was a hard blow, and blistered and reddened Mary's soft white
skin with pain): and then her heart turned round, and she
remembered with self-reproach how provokingly she had looked and
spoken, and how much her father had to bear; and oh, what a kind and
loving parent he had been, till these days of trial.  The
remembrance of one little instance of his fatherly love thronged
after another into her mind, and she began to wonder how she could
have behaved to him as she had done.

Then he came home; and but for very shame she would have confessed
her penitence in words.  But she looked sullen, from her effort to
keep down emotion; and for some time her father did not know how to
begin to speak.  At length he gulped down pride, and said--

"Mary, I'm not above saying I'm very sorry I beat thee.  Thou wert a
bit aggravating, and I'm not the man I was.  But it were wrong, and
I'll try never to lay hands on thee again."

So he held out his arms, and in many tears she told him her
repentance for her fault.  He never struck her again.

Still, he often was angry.  But that was almost better than being
silent.  Then he sat near the fireplace (from habit) smoking, or
chewing opium.  Oh, how Mary loathed that smell!  And in the dusk,
just before it merged into the short summer night, she had learned
to look with dread towards the window, which now her father would
have kept uncurtained: for there were not seldom seen sights which
haunted her in her dreams.  Strange faces of pale men, with dark
glaring eyes, peered into the inner darkness, and seemed desirous to
ascertain if her father was at home.  Or, a hand and arm (the body
hidden) was put within the door, and beckoned him away.  He always
went.  And once or twice, when Mary was in bed, she heard men's
voices below, in earnest, whispered talk.

They were all desperate members of Trades' Unions, ready for
anything; made ready by want.

While all this change for gloom yet struck fresh and heavy on Mary's
heart, her father startled her out of a reverie one evening, by
asking her when she had been to see Jane Wilson.  From his manner of
speaking, she was made aware that he had been; but at the time of
his visit he had never mentioned anything about it.  Now, however,
he gruffly told her to go next day without fail, and added some
abuse of her for not having been before.  The little outward impulse
of her father's speech gave Mary the push which she in this instance
required; and accordingly, timing her visit so as to avoid Jem's
hours at home, she went the following afternoon to Ancoats.

The outside of the well-known house struck her as different; for the
door was closed, instead of open, as it once had always stood.  The
window-plants, George Wilson's pride and especial care, looked
withering and drooping.  They had been without water for a long
time, and now, when the widow had reproached herself severely for
neglect, in her ignorant anxiety she gave them too much.  On opening
the door, Alice was seen, not stirring about in her habitual way,
but knitting by the fireside.  The room felt hot, although the fire
burnt grey and dim, under the bright rays of the afternoon sun.
Mrs. Wilson was "siding"* the dinner things, and talking all the
time, in a kind of whining, shouting voice, which Mary did not at
first understand.  She understood, at once, however, that her
absence had been noted, and talked over; she saw a constrained look
on Mrs. Wilson's sorrow-stricken face, which told her a scolding was
to come.

     *To "side," to put aside, or in order.

"Dear!  Mary, is that you?" she began.  "Why, who would ha' dreamt
of seeing you!  We thought you'd clean forgotten us; and Jem has
often wondered if he should know you, if he met you in the street."

Now, poor Jane Wilson had been sorely tried; and at present her
trials had had no outward effect, but that of increased acerbity of
temper.  She wished to show Mary how much she was offended, and
meant to strengthen her cause, by putting some of her own sharp
speeches into Jem's mouth.

Mary felt guilty, and had no good reason to give as an apology; so
for a minute she stood silent, looking very much ashamed, and then
turned to speak to Aunt Alice, who, in her surprised, hearty
greeting to Mary, had dropped her ball of worsted, and was busy,
trying to set the thread to rights, before the kitten had entangled
it past redemption, once round every chair, and twice round the
table.

"You mun speak louder than that, if you mean her to hear; she's
become as deaf as a post this last few weeks.  I'd ha' told you, if
I'd remembered how long it were sin' you'd seen her."

"Yes, my dear, I'm getting very hard o' hearing of late," said
Alice, catching the state of the case, with her quick glancing eyes.
"I suppose it's the beginning of the end."

"Don't talk o' that way," screamed her sister-in-law.  "We've had
enow of ends and deaths without forecasting more."  She covered her
face with her apron, and sat down to cry.

"He was such a good husband," said she, in a less excited tone, to
Mary, as she looked up with tear-streaming eyes from behind her
apron.  "No one can tell what I've lost in him, for no one knew his
worth like me."

Mary's listening sympathy softened her, and she went on to unburden
her heavy-laden heart.

"Eh, dear, dear!  No one knows what I've lost.  When my poor boys
went, I thought the Almighty had crushed me to th' ground, but I
never thought o' losing George; I did na think I could ha' borne to
ha' lived without him.  And yet I'm here, and he's"--A fresh burst
of crying interrupted her speech.

"Mary,"--beginning to speak again,--"did you ever hear what a poor
creature I were when he married me?  And he such a handsome fellow!
Jem's nothing to what his father were at his age."

Yes! Mary had heard, and so she said.  But the poor woman's thoughts
had gone back to those days, and her little recollections came out,
with many interruptions of sighs, and tears, and shakes of the head.

"There were nought about me for him to choose me.  I were just well
enough afore that accident, but at after I were downright plain.
And there was Bessy Witter as would ha' given her eyes for him; she
as is Mrs. Carson now, for she were a handsome lass, although I
never could see her beauty then; and Carson warn't so much above
her, as they're both above us all now."

Mary went very red, and wished she could help doing so, and wished
also that Mrs. Wilson would tell her more about the father and
mother of her lover; but she durst not ask, and Mrs. Wilson's
thoughts soon returned to her husband, and their early married days.

"If you'll believe me, Mary, there never was such a born goose at
housekeeping as I were; and yet he married me!  I had been in a
factory sin' five years old a'most, and I knew nought about
cleaning, or cooking, let alone washing and such like work.  The day
after we were married, he went to his work at after breakfast, and
says he, 'Jenny, we'll ha' th' cold beef, and potatoes, and that's a
dinner for a prince.'  I were anxious to make him comfortable, God
knows how anxious.  And yet I'd no notion how to cook a potato.  I
know'd they were boiled, and know'd their skins were taken off, and
that were all.  So I tidied my house in a rough kind o' way, then I
looked at that very clock up yonder,"--pointing at one that hung
against the wall--"and I seed it were nine o'clock, so, thinks I,
th' potatoes shall be well boiled at any rate, and I gets 'em on th'
fire in a jiffy (that's to say, as soon as I could peel 'em, which
were a tough job at first), and then I fell to unpacking my boxes!
and at twenty minutes past twelve, he comes home, and I had the beef
ready on th' table, and I went to take the potatoes out o' th' pot;
but oh! Mary, th' water had boiled away, and they were all a nasty
brown mess, as smelt through all the house.  He said nought, and
were very gentle; but oh! Mary, I cried so that afternoon.  I shall
ne'er forget it; no, never.  I made many a blunder at after, but
none that fretted me like that."

"Father does not like girls to work in factories," said Mary.

"No, I know he does not; and reason good.  They oughtn't to go at
after they're married, that I'm very clear about.  I could reckon
up,"--counting with her finger--"ay, nine men, I know, as has been
driven to th' public-house by having wives as worked in factories;
good folk, too, as thought there was no harm in putting their little
ones out to nurse, and letting their house go all dirty, and their
fires all out; and that was a place as was tempting for a husband to
stay in, was it?  He soon finds out gin-shops, where all is clean
and bright, and where th' fire blazes cheerily, and gives a man a
welcome as it were."

Alice, who was standing near for the convenience of hearing, had
caught much of this speech, and it was evident the subject had
previously been discussed by the women, for she chimed in.

"I wish our Jem could speak a word to th' Queen, about factory work
for married women.  Eh! but he comes it strong when once yo get him
to speak about it.  Wife o' his'n will never work away fra' home."

"I say it's Prince Albert as ought to be asked how he'd like his
missis to be from home when he comes in, tired and worn, and wanting
some one to cheer him; and maybe, her to come in by-and-bye, just as
tired and down in th' mouth; and how he'd like for her never to be
at home to see to th' cleaning of his house, or to keep a bright
fire in his grate.  Let alone his meals being all hugger-mugger and
comfortless.  I'd be bound, prince as he is, if his missis served
him so, he'd be off to a gin-palace, or summut o' that kind.  So why
can't he make a law again poor folks' wives working in factories?"

Mary ventured to say that she thought the Queen and Prince Albert
could not make laws, but the answer was--

"Pooh! don't tell me it's not the Queen as makes laws; and isn't she
bound to obey Prince Albert?  And if he said they mustn't, why she'd
say they mustn't, and then all folk would say, oh, no, we never
shall do any such thing no more."

"Jem's getten on rarely," said Alice, who had not heard her sister's
last burst of eloquence, and whose thoughts were still running on
her nephew, and his various talents.  "He's found out summut about a
crank or tank, I forget rightly which it is, but th' master's made
him foreman, and he all the while turning off hands; but he said he
could na part wi' Jem, nohow.  He's good wage now; I tell him he'll
be thinking of marrying soon, and he deserves a right down good
wife, that he does."

Mary went very red, and looked annoyed, although there was a secret
spring of joy deep down in her heart, at hearing Jem so spoken of.
But his mother only saw the annoyed look, and was piqued
accordingly.  She was not over and above desirous that her son
should marry.  His presence in the house seemed a relic of happier
times, and she had some little jealousy of his future wife, whoever
she might be.  Still she could not bear any one not to feel
gratified and flattered by Jem's preference, and full well she knew
how above all others he preferred Mary.  Now she had never thought
Mary good enough for Jem, and her late neglect in coming to see her
still rankled a little in her breast.  So she determined to invent a
little, in order to do away with any idea Mary might have that Jem
would choose her for "his right down good wife," as Aunt Alice
called it.

"Ay, he'll be for taking a wife soon," and then, in a lower voice,
as if confidentially, but really to prevent any contradiction or
explanation from her simple sister-in-law, she added--

"It'll not be long afore Molly Gibson (that's her at th' provision
shop round the corner) will hear a secret as will not displease her,
I'm thinking.  She's been casting sheep's eyes at our Jem this many
a day, but he thought her father would not give her to a common
working-man; but now he's good as her, every bit.  I thought once
he'd a fancy for thee, Mary, but I donnot think yo'd ever ha'
suited, so it's best as it is."

By an effort Mary managed to keep down her vexation, and to say,
"She hoped he'd be happy with Molly Gibson.  She was very handsome,
for certain."

"Ay, and a notable body, too.  I'll just step upstairs and show you
the patchwork quilt she gave me but last Saturday."

Mary was glad she was going out of the room.  Her words irritated
her; perhaps not the less because she did not fully believe them.
Besides, she wanted to speak to Alice, and Mrs. Wilson seemed to
think that she, as the widow, ought to absorb all the attention.

"Dear Alice," began Mary, "I'm so grieved to find you so deaf; it
must have come on very rapid."

"Yes, dear, it's a trial; I'll not deny it.  Pray God give me
strength to find out its teaching.  I felt it sore one fine day when
I thought I'd go gather some meadow-sweet to make tea for Jane's
cough; and the fields seemed so dree and still, and at first I could
na make out what was wanting; and then it struck me it were th' song
o' the birds, and that I never should hear their sweet music no
more, and I could na help crying a bit.  But I've much to be
thankful for.  I think I'm a comfort to Jane, if I'm only some one
to scold now and then; poor body!  It takes off her thoughts from
her sore losses when she can scold a bit.  If my eyes are left I can
do well enough; I can guess at what folk are saying."

The splendid red and yellow patch quilt now made its appearance, and
Jane Wilson would not be satisfied unless Mary praised it all over,
border, centre, and ground-work, right side and wrong; and Mary did
her duty, saying all the more, because she could not work herself up
to any very hearty admiration of her rival's present.  She made
haste, however, with her commendations, in order to avoid
encountering Jem.  As soon as she was fairly away from the house and
street, she slackened her pace, and began to think.  Did Jem really
care for Molly Gibson?  Well, if he did, let him.  People seemed all
to think he was much too good for her (Mary's own self).  Perhaps
some one else, far more handsome, and far more grand, would show him
one day that she was good enough to be Mrs. Henry Carson.  So
temper, or what Mary called "spirit," led her to encourage Mr.
Carson more than ever she had done before.

Some weeks after this there was a meeting of the Trades' Union to
which John Barton belonged.  The morning of the day on which it was
to take place he had lain late in bed, for what was the use of
getting up?  He had hesitated between the purchase of meal or opium,
and had chosen the latter, for its use had become a necessity with
him.  He wanted it to relieve him from the terrible depression its
absence occasioned.  A large lump seemed only to bring him into a
natural state, or what had been his natural state formerly.  Eight
o'clock was the hour fixed for the meeting; and at it were read
letters, filled with details of woe, from all parts of the country.
Fierce, heavy gloom brooded over the assembly; and fiercely and
heavily did the men separate, towards eleven o'clock, some irritated
by the opposition of others to their desperate plans.

It was not a night to cheer them, as they quitted the glare of the
gas-lighted room, and came out into the street.  Unceasing, soaking
rain was falling; the very lamps seemed obscured by the damp upon
the glass, and their light reached but to a little distance from the
posts.  The streets were cleared of passers-by; not a creature
seemed stirring, except here and there a drenched policeman in his
oilskin cape.  Barton wished the others good-night, and set off
home.  He had gone through a street or two, when he heard a step
behind him; but he did not care to stop and see who it was.  A
little further, and the person quickened step, and touched his arm
very lightly.  He turned, and saw, even by the darkness visible of
that badly-lighted street, that the woman who stood by him was of no
doubtful profession.  It was told by her faded finery, all unfit to
meet the pelting of that pitiless storm; the gauze bonnet, once
pink, now dirty white; the muslin gown, all draggled, and soaking
wet up to the very knees; the gay-coloured barege shawl, closely
wrapped round the form, which yet shivered and shook, as the woman
whispered, "I want to speak to you."

He swore an oath, and bade her begone.

"I really do.  Don't send me away.  I'm so out of breath, I cannot
say what I would all at once."  She put her hand to her side, and
caught her breath with evident pain.

"I tell thee I'm not the man for thee," adding an opprobrious name.
"Stay," said he, as a thought suggested by her voice flashed across
him.  He gripped her arm--the arm he had just before shaken off--and
dragged her, faintly resisting, to the nearest lamp-post.  He pushed
the bonnet back, and roughly held the face she would fain have
averted, to the light, and in her large, unnaturally bright grey
eyes, her lovely mouth, half open, as if imploring the forbearance
she could not ask for in words, he saw at once the long-lost Esther;
she who had caused his wife's death.  Much was like the gay creature
of former years; but the glaring paint, the sharp features, the
changed expression of the whole!  But most of all, he loathed the
dress; and yet the poor thing, out of her little choice of attire,
had put on the plainest she had, to come on that night's errand.

"So it's thee, is it?  It's thee!" exclaimed John, as he ground his
teeth, and shook her with passion.  "I've looked for thee long at
corners o' streets, and such like places.  I knew I should find thee
at last.  Thee'll maybe bethink thee o' some words I spoke, which
put thee up at th' time; summut about street-walkers; but oh no!
thou art none o' them naughts; no one thinks thou art, who sees thy
fine draggle-tailed dress, and thy pretty pink cheeks!" stopping for
very want of breath.

"Oh, mercy! John, mercy! listen to me for Mary's sake!"

She meant his daughter, but the name only fell on his ear as
belonging to his wife; and it was adding fuel to the fire.  In vain
did her face grow deadly pale around the vivid circle of paint, in
vain did she gasp for mercy,--he burst forth again.

"And thou names that name to me? and thou thinks the thought of her
will bring thee mercy!  Dost thou know it was thee who killed her,
as sure as ever Cain killed Abel.  She'd loved thee as her own, and
she trusted thee as her own, and when thou wert gone she never held
head up again, but died in less than a three week; and at her
judgment-day she'll rise, and point to thee as her murderer; or if
she don't, I will."

He flung her, trembling, sinking, fainting, from him, and strode
away.  She fell with a feeble scream against the lamp-post, and lay
there in her weakness, unable to rise.  A policeman came up in time
to see the close of these occurrences, and concluding from Esther's
unsteady, reeling fall, that she was tipsy, he took her in her half-
unconscious state to the lock-ups for the night.  The superintendent
of that abode of vice and misery was roused from his dozing watch
through the dark hours, by half-delirious wails and moanings, which
he reported as arising from intoxication.  If he had listened, he
would have heard these words, repeated in various forms, but always
in the same anxious, muttering way--

"He would not listen to me; what can I do?  He would not listen to
me, and I wanted to warn him!  Oh, what shall I do to save Mary's
child!  What shall I do?  How can I keep her from being such a one
as I am; such a wretched, loathsome creature!  She was listening
just as I listened, and loving just as I loved, and the end will be
just like my end.  How shall I save her?  She won't hearken to
warning, or heed it more than I did: and who loves her well enough
to watch over her as she should be watched?  God keep her from harm!
And yet I won't pray for her; sinner that I am!  Can my prayers be
heard?  No! they'll only do harm.  How shall I save her?  He would
not listen to me."

So the night wore away.  The next morning she was taken up to the
New Bailey.  It was a clear case of disorderly vagrancy, and she was
committed to prison for a month.  How much might happen in that
time!

Q: Can you write an appropriate summary of the above paragraphs?
A:

completion: John Carson's mill is well-insured, so the fire makes little difference to his livelihood. In fact, the fire provides a perfect excuse for him to purchase new machinery and enjoy some leisure time with his family. However, Carson's workers, including George Wilson, are unemployed and driven deeper into poverty. While George is out of work, he must rely on Jem's earnings at the forge. Both Wilson and John Barton are feeling the effects of the slack trade and scarce employment. One evening near Christmas, George bursts into Barton's home and asks his friend to help him bring food and medicine to Ben Davenport, one of Carson's former employees who has fallen gravely ill with typhoid fever. Barton takes his scant dinner and accompanies Wilson to the Davenports' dark, fetid cellar-home. Davenport is almost a corpse, tended to by his weeping wife and hungry children. Barton pawns all of his valuable possessions to buy food, candles and coal and brings the supplies back to the Davenports' cellar. Meanwhile, Wilson brings two of the Davenport children home with him, as Barton attempts to persuade the starving Mrs. Davenport to eat. Later, Barton goes to a druggist's shop to purchase medicine. When he observes the affluence and cheer from outside the well-lit shop windows, John Barton becomes furious, but the narrator reminds the reader that no one can know the inner trials of other people simply from their outward appearances. The next morning, Wilson goes to see Carson for an infirmary order. Wilson waits in the kitchen of Carson's opulent home, taunted by the smells of rich food. He watches Mr. Carson and his handsome and son Harry enjoy their breakfast. Carson's youngest daughter, Amy, enters, embraces her father, and teases Harry for not buying her flowers she desires although he buys lilies for other girls, presumably Mary Barton. As Amy leaves, Wilson is announced and can finally enter the room. Carson gives Wilson an out-patient's order and Harry gives his pocket change to the man. Carson's cook provides Wilson with a hot meal, and he returns to the cellar-home just in time to see Davenport die. Mary comes after receiving a message from her father and comforts Davenport's distraught widow. She prepares a mourning gown for Mrs. Davenport and Mrs. Simmons prepares for Davenport's funeral, which the town will pay for. Just as Mrs. Davenport recovers from the shock of losing her husband and finds rent money through a local parish, the Wilson twins, who were never strong before, come down with typhoid fever. Margaret tells Mary about the twins' illness, and Mary feels guilty for being so involved in her flirtation with Harry Carson. Mary hurries to Ancoats, where the Wilsons live, and finds Jane Wilson with a dying twin on her knee and Alice crying over the dead body of the other child. George tells his wife to stop "wishing him" because no one can die in the arms of someone who wishes that person to live. Alice takes the boy from his mother so that he can die in peace. Alice comforts the family by telling them that the twins have been spared a hard life by the mercy of God. When Jem returns from work and hears the news, Mary is moved by his strong agony. Mary puts an arm on Jem's shoulder and says she cannot bear to see him give way. Despite his pain, Jem feels the joy of her comfort and cannot refrain from taking her hand and telling her of his love. Mary, repulsed by his advances at such a time, returns to aid Alice and Jem ashamedly joins his parents, who are standing around their sons' twin corpses. At dawn, Mary returns to her home, thinking about Jem. She wishes that his address had not been given so plainly or not given at all because she does not return his affection. Yet she cannot help but speak lovingly to him, although she usually tries to sound cross to avoid encouraging his attentions. Mary plans to help Jem when she is Mrs. Harry Carson. Shifting her thoughts to Harry, Mary drifts towards sleep and dreams about her future wealth as Harry's wife, and that she will be able to help her father. Mary sees Harry as her ticket to becoming a wealthy lady like her Aunt Esther. Three weeks later, Jem calls on the Bartons, dressed in his finest suit. Mary ignores his entrance and then retreats upstairs. Jem unwillingly starts a conversation about class struggles with John, who tells him that the majority of accidents occur in the last two hours of work, a sign that the working day should be shortened. Jem listens half-heartedly and departs with a vague excuse, his mind still on Mary's withdrawn behavior. John is left to muse on the sad state of trade and the indifference of the wealthy. Barton and his Chartist comrades believe that perhaps Parliament does not know of the conditions in Manchester. To remedy this presumed ignorance, the men form a petition in the spring of 1839 to gather witnesses to the deplorable destitution in manufacturing districts. John Barton is one of the appointed delegates and feels important and hopeful about the future. The night before the delegates' departure to London, Barton holds a meeting for his neighbors, including Job Legh, to figure out what the delegates should say in Parliament. The next morning, Mary sees her father off and considers her resolution not to see Harry Carson while John is away. This resolution rankles with both Harry and a Sally Leadbitter, who works with Mary at Miss Simmonds' place. Sally, a vulgar and forward girl, has acted as the go-between in Harry and Mary's relationship. Sally walks to Mary's house to deliver one of Harry's letters and finds Mary in tears over the sudden death of George Wilson. Sally tells the distraught girl that Harry says he loves her, but Mary surprises Sally by saying that she does not think that she loves Harry at all. When Mary tells Sally about George's death, Sally makes a flippant comment about the brevity of life. Sally finally leaves after giving Mary the letter from Harry, imploring Mary to see him. Margaret Jennings arrives and the girls comfort each other over the death of their friend. Mary also finds out that the night before, Margaret earned a sovereign by singing for a man lecturing about music when his first singer became ill. Furthermore, Margaret is pleased because she finally told her grandfather about her growing blindness and he took the news well. Mary asks Margaret to sing and they dream about Margaret's future career. The next evening, John Barton returns home in a despondent mood because Parliament refused to listen to the delegation. Mary gives him the news of George Wilson's death, which deepens his gloom. Helplessly, Mary fetches Job and Margaret from upstairs to help cheer John up. Barton refuses to tell them about what happened at Parliament. Job tells the group his story about how he came to look after his orphaned granddaughter, Margaret. By the time Job finishes the story, Mary has fallen asleep on her father's lap. She awakens and Job recites a poem from memory, which John asks Mary to copy down. The next day, Mary writes the poem on an old valentine that Jem once gave her. The yoke of poverty grows steadily around the poor families of Manchester, including John Barton, who gave up his job in the factory for his fruitless journey to London. Now unable to find work, partly because of his involvement with the Trades' Union, Barton struggles to pay the rent, forgoing food and pawning all of his possessions. Mary continues to work as a seamstress and often sees Harry, who still intends to make her his, one way or another. John's latent resentment soon grows to a rage and one day, he beats Mary for her insolence. He soon asks forgiveness and promises to never hit her again. Barton soon takes to chewing opium to numb his hunger pangs. One evening, Barton tells Mary to visit Jane Wilson. Alice's health has deteriorated and she is almost deaf. Jane Wilson scolds Mary for her negligence in not visiting her, a poor widow. Meanwhile, Alice shares the news that Jem has been made foreman because he improved a piece of machinery. Jane grows angry when Mary appears to snub Jem as a possible husband and attempts to tell Mary that she is not good enough for Jem. Mary changes the subject and tells Alice that she is grieved to find her so deaf and departs, wondering if Jem really cares for Molly Gibson, the girl that Jane claims Jem will marry. A few weeks later, a street-walker tries to speak to John when he is walking home after a union meeting. He tries to avoid her until he realizes that this woman is the long-lost Esther. He flies at her in a rage and flings her to the ground. A policeman comes and arrests Esther for what he believes to be drunkenness. Esther spends the next month in Bailey's prison, worrying that her warning for the younger Mary will come too late.