he had forbidden his weeping, heart-broken wife to go and try
to find her poor sinning child, and declared that henceforth they would
have no daughter; that she should be as one dead, and her name never more
be named at market or at meal time, in blessing or in prayer. He had
held his peace, with compressed lips and contracted brow, when the
neighbours had noticed to him how poor Lizzie's death had aged both his
father and his mother; and how they thought the bereaved couple would
never hold up their heads again. He himself had felt as if that one
event had made him old before his time; and had envied Tom the tears he
had shed over poor, pretty, innocent, dead Lizzie. He thought about her
sometimes, till he ground his teeth together, and could have struck her
down in her shame. His mother had never named her to him until now.

"Mother!" said he, at last. "She may be dead. Most likely she is"

"No, Will; she is not dead," said Mrs. Leigh. "God will not let her die
till I've seen her once again. Thou dost not know how I've prayed and
prayed just once again to see her sweet face, and tell her I've forgiven
her, though she's broken my heart--she has, Will." She could not go on
for a minute or two for the choking sobs. "Thou dost not know that, or
thou wouldst not say she could be dead--for God is very merciful, Will;
He is: He is much more pitiful than man. I could never ha' spoken to thy
father as I did to Him--and yet thy father forgave her at last. The last
words he said were that he forgave her. Thou'lt not be harder than thy
father, Will? Do not try and hinder me going to seek her, for it's no
use."

Will sat very still for a long time before he spoke. At last he said,
"I'll not hinder you. I think she's dead, but that's no matter."

"She's not dead," said her mother, with low earnestness. Will took no
notice of the interruption.

"We will all go to Manchester for a twelvemonth, and let the farm to Tom
Higginbotham. I'll get blacksmith's work; and Tom can have good
schooling for awhile, which he's always craving for. At the end of the
year you'll come back, mother, and give over fretting for Lizzie, and
think with me that she is dead--and, to my mind, that would be more
comfort than to think of her living;" he dropped his voice as he spoke
these last words. She shook her head but made no answer. He asked
again--"Will you, mother, agree to this?"

"I'll agree to it a-this-ns," said she. "If I