So they walked on together in silence. As they turned up into a

small court, opening out of a squalid street, Bessy said, 'Yo'll not be daunted if father's at home, and speaks a bit

gruffish at first. He took a mind to ye, yo' see, and he thought

a deal o' your coming to see us; and just because he liked yo' he

were vexed and put about.' 'Don't fear, Bessy.' But Nicholas was not at home when they entered. A great

slatternly girl, not so old as Bessy, but taller and stronger,

was busy at the wash-tub, knocking about the furniture in a rough

capable way, but altogether making so much noise that Margaret

shrunk, out of sympathy with poor Bessy, who had sat down on the

first chair, as if completely tired out with her walk. Margaret

asked the sister for a cup of water, and while she ran to fetch

it (knocking down the fire-irons, and tumbling over a chair in

her way), she unloosed Bessy's bonnet strings, to relieve her

catching breath.

'Do you think such life as this is worth caring for?' gasped

Bessy, at last. Margaret did not speak, but held the water to her

lips. Bessy took a long and feverish draught, and then fell back

and shut her eyes. Margaret heard her murmur to herself: 'They

shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more; neither shall the

sun light on them, nor any heat.' Margaret bent over and said, 'Bessy, don't be impatient with your

life, whatever it is--or may have been. Remember who gave it you,

and made it what it is!' She was startled by hearing Nicholas

speak behind her; he had come in without her noticing him.

'Now, I'll not have my wench preached to. She's bad enough as it

is, with her dreams and her methodee fancies, and her visions of

cities with goulden gates and precious stones. But if it amuses

her I let it abe, but I'm none going to have more stuff poured

into her.' 'But surely,' said Margaret, facing round, 'you believe in what I

said, that God gave her life, and ordered what kind of life it

was to be?' 'I believe what I see, and no more. That's what I believe, young

woman. I don't believe all I hear--no! not by a big deal. I did

hear a young lass make an ado about knowing where we lived, and

coming to see us. And my wench here thought a deal about it, and

flushed up many a time, when hoo little knew as I was looking at

her, at the sound of a strange step. But hoo's come at last,--and

hoo's welcome, as long as hoo'll keep from preaching on what hoo

knows nought about.' Bessy had been watching Margaret's face; she

half sate up to speak now, laying her hand on Margaret's arm with

a gesture of entreaty. 'Don't be vexed wi' him--there's many a

one thinks like him; many and many a one here. If yo' could hear

them speak, yo'd not be shocked at him; he's a rare good man, is

father--but oh!' said she, falling back in despair, 'what he says

at times makes me long to die more than ever, for I want to know

so many things, and am so tossed about wi' wonder.' 'Poor wench--poor old wench,--I'm loth to vex thee, I am; but a

man mun speak out for the truth, and when I see the world going

all wrong at this time o' day, bothering itself wi' things it

knows nought about, and leaving undone all the things that lie in

disorder close at its hand--why, I say, leave a' this talk about

religion alone, and set to work on what yo' see and know. That's

my creed. It's simple, and not far to fetch, nor hard to work.' But the girl only pleaded the more with Margaret.




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