'Seems thou'rt always buying.'
That was all; he let her free. In an unworthy attempt to appease her conscience she did in fact go first into the town; she bought some wool; the trick was despicable. Then she hastened to Edward Street. The decrepit works seemed to have undergone no change. She had expected the business would be suspended, and Willie Price alone on the bank; but manufacture was proceeding as usual. She went direct to the office, fancying, as she climbed the stairs, that every window of all the workshops was full of eyes to discern her purpose. Without knocking, she pushed against the unlatched door and entered. Willie was lolling in his father's chair, gloomy, meditative, apparently idle. He was coatless, and wore a dirty apron; a battered hat was at the back of his head, and his great hands which lay on the desk in front of him, were soiled. He sprang up, flushing red, and she shut the door; they were alone together.
'I'm all in my dirt,' he murmured apologetically. Simple and silly creature, to imagine that she cared for his dirt!
'It's all right,' she said; 'you needn't worry any more. It's all right.' They were glorious words for her, and her face shone.
'What do you mean?' he asked gruffly.
'Why,' she smiled, full of happiness, 'I got that paper and burnt it!'
He looked at her exactly as if he had not understood. 'Does your father know?'
She still smiled at him happily. 'No; but I shall tell him this afternoon. It's all right. I've burnt it.'
He sank down in the chair, and, laying his head on the desk, burst into sobbing tears. She stood over him, and put a hand on the sleeve of his shirt. At that touch he sobbed more violently.
'Mr. Price, what is it?' She asked the question in a calm, soothing tone.