ter door, which led
into the yard.

Horatia wondered to herself if they kept near that door so as to have a
way of escape in case their master got into one of his passions; but
these sturdy Yorkshiremen were afraid of no one and nothing. Strong,
sturdy, and independent, they stood there, with civil but determined
faces. They were the old mill-hands, and had been with Mark Clay from
boyhood; and among them was Naomi's father.

'Well, men, is t' mill burnt down that I can't even eat my dinner in
peace, but must come at once to speak with you?' inquired Mr Clay.

'Sorry to interrupt your dinner, master; but we know it's a long
business, is that, up at Balmoral, and we've got to take an answer back
to our mates down Ousebank by nine o'clock,' said Naomi's father, who was
evidently the spokesman.

'Oh, and what may you want to know?' inquired Mark Clay in a tone which
did not promise much.

Luke Mickleroyd looked for a moment doubtfully at Horatia. 'It's business
we want to talk, Mr Clay,' he said.

'Have your say, lad, and have done with it. This young lady is going to
judge between us to-night, and the sooner you say what you've got to say
the better we'll be pleased, for our dinner's cooling on the table, and
that's not the way we treat guests up north,' said Mr Clay in a more
conciliatory tone. The reminder of Horatia had done Luke Mickleroyd's
cause a good turn, as he saw.

'Well, master, it's like this, only I doubt little missy there won't
understand aught about it. The young men say there's a lot more boys
taken on in the mill to what there ought to be,' began Luke.

Mr Clay interrupted angrily. 'Ought to be? And who's to settle that but
me?'

'I am, for to-night; you said I might. Do let me feel like a millionaire
just for five minutes!' said Horatia in an undertone, pulling at the
mill-owner's sleeve to make him attend to her.

The millionaire threw himself into the big armchair at the top of the
broad table which divided him from his men, and said with a rough laugh,
'Have your way, lass. I'm rich enough to let you have your whim, if you
don't go too far. Let's see how you'd manage a mill.--Now then, Luke, let
Miss Cunningham hear your tale, and see what she says to it.'

'We've got to deal with you, master,' began one of the others rather
gruffly, for he thought Mark Clay was treating them and their wrongs
lightly.

But Luke Mickleroyd had heard from his daughter Naomi of the influence
Horatia had