And so our council ended, Jack engaging to search high and low for any scrap of testimony that might help the prisoners.
The month within which Mary must give her answer to Walker’s mother stole on. I scarce could trust myself to look on Mary so sad and wan was she. But one morning towards the middle of December after she had sided the breakfast things she donned her Sunday clothes, a thing rarely done on week–days in our house, except for visits of more than common ceremony, or for weddings and parties.
“I’m going to Huddersfe’lt and mebbe a step beyond,” she told my mother.
“To see thi Aunt Matty?”
“I’st happen see her.”
My heart quaked.
“Yo’r never goin’ to Walker’s?” I asked when I could speak to her alone.
“Trust me for that,” she said. “I’d rather walk a good few miles another way.”
“Then where’st ta goin’?” I persisted, “an’ winnot yo’ tak’ Faith? Th’ walk ’ll happen do her good if she wraps well up.”
“Faith mun see to th’ mixin’ o’ th’ Kersmas cake. Awn towd her how to mix th’ dough, an’ aw’ll hope ’oo’ll mak’ a better job on it nor ’oo did o’ th’ parkin o’ Bunfire Day; but it’s never too late to larn, an’ awm thinkin’ it won’t be long afore she’ll need to know summat more nor to play on th’ spinnet an’ to sing hymns an’ love ditties. They’ll boil no man’s kettle.”