n if she sees any fellah a-comin' this way, an' rin ye back to me;'
and she impatiently beckoned me away on her errand.

When I returned, having made this dispositions, I perceived how pale the
girl was.

'Are you ill, Meg?' I asked.

'Never ye mind. Well enough. Listen, Miss; I must tell it all in a crack,
an' if she calls, rin awa' to her, and le' me to myself, for if fayther or
t'other un wor to kotch me here, I think they'd kill me a'most. Hish!'

She paused a second, looking askance, in the direction where she fancied
Mary Quince was. Then she resumed in a whisper--

'Now, lass, mind ye, ye'll keep what I say to yourself. You're not to tell
that un nor any other for your life, mind, a word o' what I'm goin' to tell
ye.'

'I'll not say a word. Go on.'

'Did ye see Dudley?'

'I think I saw him getting up the ladder.'

'In the mill? Ha! that's him. He never went beyond Todcaster. He staid in
Feltram after.'

It was my turn to look pale now. My worst conjecture was established.

CHAPTER LVI

_I CONSPIRE_

'That's a bad un, he is--oh, Miss, Miss Maud! It's nout that's good as
keeps him an' fayther--(mind, lass, ye promised you would not tell no
one)--as keeps them two a-talkin' and a-smokin' secret-like together in the
mill. An' fayther don't know I found him out. They don't let me into the
town, but Brice tells me, and he knows it's Dudley; and it's nout that's
good, but summat very bad. An' I reckon, Miss, it's all about you. Be ye
frightened, Miss Maud?'

I felt on the point of fainting, but I rallied.

'Not much, Meg. Go on, for Heaven's sake. Does Uncle Silas know he is
here?'

'Well, Miss, they were with him, Brice told me, from eleven o'clock to nigh
one o' Tuesday night, an' went in and come out like thieves, 'feard ye'd
see 'em.'

'And how does Brice know anything bad?' I asked, with a strange freezing
sensation creeping from my heels to my head and down again--I am sure
deadly pale, but speaking very collectedly.

'Brice said, Miss, he saw Dudley a-cryin' and lookin' awful black, and says
he to fayther, "'Tisn't in my line nohow, an' I can't;" and says fayther
to he, "No one likes they soart o' things, but how can ye help it? The old
boy's behind ye wi' his pitchfork, and ye canna stop." An' wi' that he
bethought him o' Brice, and says he, "What be ye a-doin' there? Get ye down
wi' the nags to blacksmith, do ye." An' oop gits Dudley, pullin' his hat
ower his brows, an' says he,