I spoke to you about those children in a way I had no business to do. I did not believe you. I could not have taken care of another man's children myself, if he had acted towards me as I hear Boucher did towards you. But I know now that you spoke truth. I beg your pardon."
Higgins did not turn round, or immediately respond to this. But when he did speak, it was in a softened tone, although the words were gruff enough.
"Yo've no business to go prying into what happened between Boucher and me. He's dead, and I'm sorry. That's enough."
"So it is. Will you take work with me? That's what I came to ask."
Higgins's obstinacy wavered, recovered strength, and stood firm. He would not speak. Mr. Thornton would not ask again. Higgins's eye fell on the children.
"Yo've called me impudent, and a liar, and a mischief-maker, and yo' might ha' said wi' some truth, as I were now and then given to drink. An'I ha' called you a tyrant, an' an oud bull-dog, and a hard, cruel master; that's where it stands. But for th' childer. Measter, do yo' think we can e'er get on together?"
"Well!" said Mr. Thornton, half-laughing, "it was not my proposal that we should go together. But there's one comfort, on your own showing. We neither of us can think much worse of the other than we do now."
"That's true," said Higgins, reflectively. "I've been thinking, ever sin' I saw you, what a marcy it
