"I hope tha art na, if he did na ha' luck. Theer's a great deal i' luck." Then, with a quick change of subject,—"How did tha loike th' sermont?"
"I am not sure," he answered, "that I know that either. How did you like it yourself?"
"Ay," with an air of elderly approval, "it wur a good un. Mester Hixon allus gi'es us a good un. He owts wi' what he's getten to say. I loike a preacher as owts wi' it."
A few moments later, when they rose to go home, her mind seemed suddenly to revert to a former train of thought.
"Wur theer money i' that thing thy feyther wur try in' at?" she asked.
"Not for him, it seemed."
"Ay; but theer mought be fur thee. Tha mayst ha' more in thee than he had, an' mought mak' summat on it. I'd nivver let owt go as had money i' it. Tha'dst mak' a better rich mon than Haworth."
After leaving her Murdoch did not go home. He turned his back upon the village again, and walked rapidly away from it, out on the country road and across field paths, and did not turn until he was miles from Broxton.
Of late he had been more than usually abstracted. He had been restless, and at times nervously unstrung. He had slept ill, and spent his days in a half-conscious mood. More than once, as they walked together, Floxham had spoken to him amazed.
"What's up wi' thee, lad?" he had said. "Art dazed, or hast tha takken a turn an' been on a spree?"
One night, when they were together, Haworth had picked up from the floor a rough but intricate-looking
