ever did. You never seed such a woman. Big and plump--and
sing! By----! I never cared for singing afore. And her knows the world,
let me tell ye."

"You might have sent us word," said Herbert.

Silas grew reflective. "Ah!" he said. "I might--and I mightn't. I didn't
want Hanbridge chattering. I was trapesing wi' her from town to town
till her engagement was up--pretty near six months. Then us settled i'
rooms at Scarborough, and there was other things to think of. I couldn't
leave her. Her wouldna' let me. To-day was the fust free day I've had,
and so I run down to fix matters. And nice weather I've chosen! Her
aunt's spending the night wi' her."

"Then she's left the stage."

"Of course she's left th' stage. What 'ud be th' sense o' her painting
her face and screeching her chest out night after night for a crowd o'
blockheads, when I can keep her like a lady. Dost think her's a fool?
Her's the only woman wi' any sense as ever I met in all my life."

"And you want to come here and live?"

"No, us dunna! At least her dunna. Her says her hates th' Five Towns.
Her says Hanbridge is dirty and too religious for her. Says its nowt but
chapels and public-houses and pot-banks. So her ladyship wunna' come
here. No, nephew, thou shalt buy this house for six hundred, and be d--d
to thy foreclosure! And th' furniture for a hundred. It's a dead
bargain. Us'll settle at Scarborough, Liz and me. Now this water's
getting chilly. I'll nip up to thy room and find some other clothes."

"You can't go up just now," said Herbert.

"But I mun go at once, nephew. Th' water's chilly, and I've had enough
on it."

"The fact is we're using my old bedroom for a sort of a nursery, and
Alice and Jane Sarah are just giving the baby its bath."

"Babby!" cried Silas. "Shake hands, nephew. Give us thy fist. I may as
well out wi' it. I've gotten one mysen. Pour some more hot water in
here, then."

THE TIGHT HAND

I

The tight hand was Mrs Garlick's. A miser, she was not the ordinary
miser, being exceptional in the fact that her temperament was joyous.
She had reached the thirtieth year of her widowhood and the sixtieth of
her age, with cheerfulness unimpaired. The people of Bursley, when they
met her sometimes of a morning coming down into the town from her
singular house up at Toft End, would be conscious of pleasure in her
brisk gait, her slightly malicious but broad-minded smile, and her
cheerful greeting. She was always in bla