"Still, thou hes no call to share thy money with him. Go home to Joyce, do, my lad."
"Nay, not I; she'll hev a scolding waiting for me. I'm most sure of work next week at Satterley's, and then I'll go to Joyce."
It was one of Steve's peculiarities to be always most sure of some good thing next week. And for a long time Sarah trusted in him. His open face, his frank speech, his positive air of satisfaction, were hard to doubt, especially when she didn't want to doubt them. None are so blind as they who will not see, and long after every one in the village was convinced of Steve's utter worthlessness Sarah continued to expect good from him, and for him.
But one dreary evening in November the full significance of the change which had taken place in her brother's life was revealed to her. She had come home from the mill, weary, cold, and wet, with a bitter indifference in her heart, for she felt as if happiness had said to her, "No! no! no!" until she was full of cold despair. As soon as she entered the door, Martha Crossley said to her, "Here hes been little Polly Sands for thee, Sarah. Joyce sent her."
"What for?" She was removing her wet
