'Who'll work the loom now?' he asked; his look and tone altering to match hers.
'I'm sure I don't know,' said Louie, carelessly. 'Very like she'll not get anyone. The work's been slack a long while.'
David suddenly drew back from his bookbinding.
'When did you let her know, Louie—about me?' he asked quickly.
'Let her know? Who was to let her know? Your letter came eight o'clock and our train started half-past ten. I'd just time to pitch my things together and that was about all.'
'And you never sent, and you haven't written?'
'You leave me alone,' said the girl, turning instantly sulky under his tone and look. 'It's nowt to you what I do.'
'Why!' he said, his voice shaking, 'she'd be waiting and waiting—and she's got nothing else to depend on.'
'There's her brother,' said Louie angrily, 'and if he won't take her, there's the workhouse. They'll take her there fast enough, and she won't know anything about it.'
'The workhouse!' cried David, springing up, incensed past bearing by her callous way. 'Margaret that took you in out of the snow!—you said it yourself. And you—you'd not lift a finger—not you—you'd not even give her notice—"chuck her into the workhouse—that's good enough for her!" It's vile,—that's what it is!'