“H’m, that’s as may be,” said Dorothy in the maturity of wisdom, finished and formed at a select academy, and, turning to take her leave of Lucy.
“I must run away now, dear Lucy; ’t will never do to let your handsome lover catch me in this fright of a gown. I’ll come again some day when you’re likely to be by yourself. And, Lucy, dear, I daresay he isn’t at all a paragon. There, now, and don’t blush any more, or you’ll be struck so.”
Now although from this time forth Dorothy Tinker made more than one occasion to visit her sick friend, popping in at uncertain times of the day, as Mrs. Garside said, “promis’us-like” it was not till nigh up upon Christmas time, that she ever had speech with Tom. And this is how that came to pass. One day, a week or so before Yule-tide, when the snow lay heavy upon all the hills, no other than Workhouse Jack presented himself in Wilberlee mill yard, looking very like a middle-aged, beardless, lean and hungry image of Father Christmas. He was met in the yard by Sam Buckley.
“We don’t want no hands: we’re puttin’ no fresh ’uns on this side Easter, so off yo’ pack abaat yo’r business.”
“Be yo’ Mr. Tinker, sir?” said Jack.
“Nooah,” answered Sam, somewhat mollified by the implied compliment; “nooah, what do you want?”
“Isn’t this th’ spot at Tom Pinder works at?” asked Jack.
“Aye, if yo’ ca’ it workin’; some folk ’ud ca’ it lakin’. What does ta want to kno’ for? no good awm sure.”
“Well, aw’n getten a letter for him.”
“A letter! Who’s it fro’?”