er cold. Heigh-ho, the quarrel
won't be of my seeking anyhow."

These two lads were both sons of colliery owners, and both pupils of
the ancient school of St. Peter of York, the most notable foundation
north of the Humber. But there the likeness ended. Matthew Blackett's
father was a rich man and descended from generations of rich men. He
owned a large colliery and employed many men and not a few ships. He
was, moreover, a county magnate, and held his head high on Tyneside.
In politics he was a strong supporter of the Tory party, and had never
been easy under the rule of Dutch William. He was proud and somewhat
arrogant, yet not wanting his good points. George Fairburn, on the
other hand, was the son of a much smaller man, of one, in truth, who
had by his energy and thrift become the proprietor of a small pit, of
which he himself acted as manager. The elder Fairburn was of a sturdy
independent character, his independence, however, sometimes asserting
itself at the expense of his manners; that at least was the way Mr.
Blackett put it. Fairburn had been thrown much in his boyhood among
the Quakers, of which new sect there were several little groups in the
northern counties. He was a firm Whig, and as firm a hater of the
exiled James II. He had made some sacrifice to send his boy to a good
school, being a great believer in education, at a time when men of his
class were little disposed to set much store by book learning.

After breakfast by candlelight next morning the passengers for the
coach assembled at the door of the inn. Blackett was already
comfortably seated among his many and ample rugs and wraps when George
Fairburn appeared, accompanied by a woman who made an odd figure in an
ancient cloak many sizes too big for her, covering her from head to
foot. It had, in fact, originally been a soldier's cloak, and had seen
much hard service in the continental campaigns under William III. The
good dame was very demonstrative in her affection, and kissed George
again and again on both cheeks, with good sounding smacks, ere she
would let him mount to the roof of the coach. Then she stood by the
window and talked volubly in a rich northern brogue till the vehicle
started, and even after, for George could see her gesticulations when
he was far out of earshot.

"It is bitter cold, bairn," she had said for the third or fourth time,
"and I doubt thou wilt be more dead than alive when thy father sees
thee at Newcastle. But don't