Hale first, and then you, sir; for he's in a
strange kind of way."

"He had better come up here, Dixon; and
then he can see us both, and choose which he
likes tor his listener."

"Oh! very well, sir. I've no wish to hear
what he's got to say, I'm sure; only if you
could see his shoes I'm sure you'd say the
kitchen was the fitter place."

"He can wipe them, I suppose," said Mr.
Hale. So Dixon flung off to bid him walk
up-stairs. She was a little mollified, however,
when he looked at his feet with a hesitating
air; and then, sitting down on the bottom
stair, he took off the offending shoes, and
without a word walked up-stairs.

"Sarvant, sir! " said he, slicking his hair
down when he came into the room: "lf
hoo'l excuse me (looking at Margaret) for
being i' my stockings; I'se been tramping a'
day, and streets is none o' th' cleanest."

Margaret thought that fatigue might
account for the change in his manner, for he
was unusually quiet and subdued; and he
had evidently some difficulty in saying what
he came to say.

Mr. Hale's ever-ready sympathy with
anything of shyness or hesitation, or want of
self-possession, made him come to his aid.

"We shall have tea up directly, and then
you'll take a cup with us, Mr. Higgins. I am
sure you are tired if you've been out much
this wet relaxing day. Margaret, my dear,
can't you hasten tea?"

Margaret could only hasten tea by taking
the preparation of it into her own hands, and
so offending Dixon, who was emerging out of
her sorrow for her late mistress into a very
touchy irritable state. But Martha, like all
who came in contact with Margaret—even
Dixon herself, in the long run—felt it a
pleasure and an honour to forward any of her
wishes; and her readiness, and Margaret's
sweet forbearance, soon made Dixon ashamed
of herself.

"Why master and you must always be
asking the lower classes up-stairs since we
came to Milton, I cannot understand. Folk
at Helstone were never brought higher than
the kitchen; and I've let one or two of them
know before now that they might think it an
honour to be even there."

Higgins found it easier to unburden
himself to one than to two. After Margaret
left the room, he went to the door and
assured himself that it was shut. Then he
came and stood close to Mr. Hale.

"Master," said he, "yo'd not guess easy
what I've been tramping after to-day.
Special if yo remember my manner o' talk
yesterday. I've been a seeking work. I
have," said he. "I said to mysel, I'd keep a
civil tongue in my head, let who would say
what 'em would. I'd set my teeth into my
tongue sooner nor speak i' haste. For that
man's sake—yo understand," jerking his
thumb back in some unknown direction.

"No, I don't," said Mr. Hale, seeing he
waited for some kind of assent, and
completely bewildered as to who "that man"
could be.

"That chap as lies there," said he, with
another jerk. "Him as went and drownded
himself; poor chap! I did na' think he'd got
it in him to lie still and let the water creep
o'er him till he died. Boucher, yo know."

"Yes, I know now," said Mr. Hale. "Go
back to what you were saying: you'd not
speak in haste——"

"For his sake. Yet not for his sake; for
where'er he is, and whate'er, he'll ne'er know
other clemming or cold again; but for the
wife's sake, and the bits of childer."

"God bless you!" said Mr. Hale, starting
up; then, calming down, he said breathlessly,
"What do you mean? Tell me out."

"I have telled yo," said Higgins, a little
surprised at Mr. Hale's agitation. "I would
na ask for work for mysel; but them's left as
a charge on me. I reckon, I would ha guided
Boucher to a better end; but I set him off
o' the road, and so I mun answer for him."

Mr. Hale got hold of Higgins's hand and
shook it heartily, without speaking. Higgins
looked awkward and ashamed.

"There, there, master! There's ne'er a
man, to call a man, amongst us, but what
would do the same; ay, and better too; for,
belie' me, I'se ne'er got a stroke o' work, nor
yet a sight of any. For all I telled Hamper
that, let alone his pledge—which I would not
sign—no, I could na, not e'en for this—he'd
ne'er ha' such a worker on his mill as I
would be—he'd ha' none o' me—no more
would none on th' others. I'm a poor black
feckless sheep—childer may clem for aught I
can do, unless, parson, yo'd help me?"

"Help you! How? I would do anything,
—but what can I do?"

"Miss there"—for Margaret had re-
entered the room, and stood silent, listening
—"has often talked grand o' the South, and
the ways down there. Now I dunnot know
how far off it is, but I've been thinking if I
could get 'em down there, where food is cheap
and wages good, and all the folk, rich and
poor, master and man, friendly like; yo
could, may be, help me to work. I'm not
forty-five, and I've a deal o' strength in me
master."

"But what kind of work could you do, my
man?"

"Well, I reckon I could spade a bit——"

"And for that," said Margaret, stepping
forwards, "for anything you could do,
Higgins, with the best will in the world, you
would, may be, get nine shillings a week;
may be ten, at the outside. Food is much
the same as here, except that you might have
a little garden——"

"The childer could work at that," said he.
"I'm sick o' Milton anyways, and Milton is
sick o' me."

"You must not go to the South," said