he said, with an air of meek protestation. "They seem to ha'—to ha' cumylated!"
"Theer's twelve on 'em," answered Mrs. Briarley, dryly, "an' they've aw getten mouths, as tha sees. An' their feyther's goin' to bring th' mesters down a bit!"
Twelve pairs of eyes stolidly regarded their immediate progenitor, as if desirous of discovering his intentions. Mr. Briarley was embarrassed.
"Sararann," he faltered, "send 'em out to play 'em. Send 'em out into th' open air. It's good fur 'em, th' open air is, an' they set a mon back."
Mrs. Briarley burst into lamentations, covering her face with her apron and rocking to and fro.
"Aye," cried she, "send 'em out in th' air—happen they'll fatten on it. It's aw they'll get, poor childer. Let 'em mak' th' most on it."
In these days Haworth was more of a lion than ever. He might have dined in state with a social potentate each day if he had been so minded. The bolder spirits visited him at the Works, and would have had him talk the matter over. But he was in the humor for neither festivities nor talk. He knew what foundation his safety rested upon, and spent many a sleepless and feverish night. He was bitter enough at heart against those he had temporarily baffled.
"Wait till tha'rt out o' th' woods," he said to Ffrench, when he was betrayed into expressing his sense of relief.
Oddly enough, the feeling against Ffrench was disproportionately violent. He was regarded as an alien and a usurper of the rights of others. There existed a large
