"To see my mother," said d.i.c.k, while Lucy flung a triumphant look at the happy mother, who drew the lad fondly to her side.

When, at last, Lucy rose to take her leave, it was getting dark, and Mary said she would put on her bonnet and go with her a little way.

"Not to-night, Mary. I've chattered so much and so long that your mother ought to be in bed. I can manage very well by myself."

"I'll go with you, Miss Blyth," said d.i.c.k, jumping to his feet.

"Oh! You think that after you've been working like a Briton all the day in Farmer Crabtree's field, and walked nearly three miles beside to see your mother"--here there was another glance at Mrs.

Morris--"and three miles to go back, I'm going to let you walk an extra mile with me! Why, bless the boy, you must think I've a heart as hard as my father's anvil."

Meanwhile Piggy Morris had been silently re-lacing his boots, and now, getting up from his chair, he reached down his hat from a nail, and said, quietly,--

"Never mind, d.i.c.k, my lad, I'll see Miss Blyth home."

Piggy Morris, the surly and sour, could not have surprised them more if they had seen a pair of wings sprouting from his shoulder-blades.

Lucy quietly said, "Oh, thank you, Mr. Morris, you are kind," and giving Ursa Major her arm, the oddly-matched pair turned their steps towards Nestleton Forge.

"What's c.u.m to feyther?" said d.i.c.k, as one who waits for a reply.

"Goodness knows," said Mary; "I never knew him do such a thing before."

"My dear," said Mrs. Morris, "it's Lucy Blyth's magic. That girl's an angel if ever there was one. If your fayther would only go to meeting n.o.body knows what might happen." Here the good woman sighed at what appeared to her a vista of delight too good to hope for.

Meanwhile Lucy Blyth and her boorish escort were making their way through the wintry night towards Nestleton Forge. Happily for Morris, with whom words were always few, and usually gruff, his companion rushed into conversation--not that she was that social nuisance, a wordy woman, but that she was a born politician, and meant to turn the golden moments to good account.

"Mrs. Morris is much better and brighter to-night. Don't you think so?"

"Yes," was the emphatic reply, "because she's had you to cheer her up.

She does get desperate worritsome at times, though."

"Why, you see, Mr. Morris, it is hard for her to be almost always a prisoner in her chair, and as for her sick headaches, I don't know how she does to bear them."

"Yes, I daresay it's hard enough," was the brief reply.

"Mary's a great comfort to her," said Lucy. "She is so quiet and gentle, and nurses her so tenderly. I often wonder how she manages to get through her work so well. I _do_ like Mary."

"Yes, Poll's a good la.s.s," said Morris, laconically.

"How kind and nice it is that those boys should come so often and so far to see their mother! I _was_ pleased to hear about Bob."

"What about Bob?" said Ursa Major.

"Why, on Tuesday, after his day's work, he walked all the way to Kesterton and bought his mother some oranges."

"Did he?" quoth Bruin.

"Yes, he did, and d.i.c.k's as kind and good as he is. I _do_ like those lads."

"It appears to me you like 'em all," said Piggy Morris, and there was a little querulousness in his tone, as though he felt himself to be a natural exception.

"You never said a truer word," said Lucy, laughing, "and I'm afraid I shall keep coming to see you, till you turn me out."

Here Morris gave a chuckle, odd in its character, a cross between a grunt and a hiccup. "Then that'll be for ever an' ever, as long as there's a threshwood to the door, or a tile on the roof."

"By the way, Mr. Morris, do you know that Squire Fuller has refused us a piece of land for a Methodist chapel? He says he won't have such a thing in his village."

"_His_ village! The old fool, it isn't all his. Midden Harbour belongs to old Crabtree. Squire Fuller's a bad old"----

"Hush!" said Lucy, "don't say anything naughty, for my sake."

Ursa Major growled and finished his sentence, more expressive than refined, in an unknown tongue.

"But it does seem a pity that we can't have a chapel, doesn't it?

Farmer Houston's kitchen cannot hold all the people."

"Humph! What's the squire care about that?"

"No, more's the pity, but our young minister, Mr. Mitch.e.l.l, says that, seeing we can't get all the people who come into one room, we must try to find another. He would like to get one in Midden Harbour."

"Midden Harbour! Miss Blyth. Why that's a rum spot to come into."

"Why, you see; Squire Fuller couldn't touch us there." [O Lucy, you inveterate plotter! you designing woman!] "And you see, Mr. Morris, if your neighbours are a bad lot, it's time somebody was trying to do them good. But," said she, heaving a sigh which was intended to search the innermost recesses of his heart, "there's n.o.body there that has room enough to take us in."

Piggy Morris smiled grimly, as he said, "Try d.i.c.k Spink, the besom-maker."

"Oh, don't mention that wicked man. We must have a more respectable place than that, or we can't come at all, _and Squire Fuller will get his way_."

"Nay, I'll be hanged if he shall. You shall have my house first, though we have no room to spare."

Piggy Morris stood still a moment. Lucy's heart beat with hope. Then Morris exclaimed,--

"Lucy Blyth! For your sake, you shall have my old malt house. I can do without it, and the Methody parson shall come into Midden Harbour!"

"Oh, Mr. Morris! G.o.d bless you for saying that. Now I shall be able to come and _see you every week_." That clinched the nail, and as Adam Olliver said at the quarterly meeting, "G.o.d was strangger than the devil," and Midden Harbour couldn't "keep oot the hosts o' G.o.d's elect."

"Come in and tell my father," said Lucy, as they reached the garden gate, "you'll be the most welcome guest he's seen for many a day."

"Good evening, Morris," said Natty Blyth, who had come to the door; "Come in a bit!"

"I can't stop, thank ye," blurted out Piggy Morris. "They tell me you want to hold your meetings in Midden Harbour. You can have my malt-kiln and welcome, and you may tell the Methody parson that he may thank Lucy Blyth for that. Good night."

CHAPTER XXIII.

THE DARK DEED IN THURSTON WOOD.