uring for
himself. Many of the mill-owners in Brunford were, a few years before,
poor men, while now, owing to a great boom in the cotton trade, they
were quite wealthy men. During the last few months, however, Tom's
best friends had not been quite so hopeful about him. He had been a
frequent visitor at the Thorn and Thistle; and he had altogether given
up attendance at Sunday School. This was considered a bad sign in
Brunford, where the great bulk of the respectable young men attend one
of the many Sunday Schools in the town.

As Tom neared the Town Hall his face changed somewhat, and a look of
eager expectancy came into his eyes. He noted with satisfaction that
the yard outside a big building was empty. "I'm in time after all," he
reflected. "They've just sung the last hymn."

A few minutes later several hundred young people came into the street,
and Tom was not long in singling out one for whom he had evidently been
watching. This was a young girl of about twenty years of age, and it
was easy to see at a glance that she was superior to those whom she
accompanied. Her face was refined, her eyes large and intelligent; and
her neat, well-fitting clothes did not suggest the flamboyancy of Polly
Powell's adornments.

"There's Tom Pollard waiting for you, Alice," said one of the girls.
Alice Lister flushed as the girl spoke, and the colour which rose to
her cheeks told its own tale.

"If I were you, Alice," said another, "I should keep my eye on him.
Sin' he give up going to Sunday School he's noan so much of a catch;
besides, I saw him with Polly Powell last Sunday evening after he went
home with you; and Polly Powell is noan your sort."

Alice did not reply to this, but her lips trembled; evidently the words
wounded her. All the time Tom stood smoking a cigarette. Although he
had come to meet Alice, he did not like the idea of going up to claim
her while so many girls were around.

"Ay, Tom," said one of the girls, shouting to him. "How's Polly
Powell?"

Tom did not reply; his ready wit left him for the moment.

"If I were Alice," said another, "I'd give thee the sack. Tha's noan
fitted to go with her."

"Ay," said another, "and Polly's only just playing wi' him; she's got
more nor one string to her bow, has Polly. And she'd noan look at
thee, Tom, if the young landlord at the Bull and Butcher had made up to
her."

Lancashire folks are not slow in speaking their minds, and they have no
false d