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The market-place was almost empty. She crossed it to walk down Victoria Road and past the park at the foot of Brampton Hill. Here, the shops on one side of Victoria Road petered out, but did so grandly, with the imposing structure that held the post office on the ground floor and the Registrar of Births and Deaths on the second floor.

She was actually walking blindly when the voice said, "Oh, I'm sorry.

I beg your pardon. "

The man, who had turned from fastening his horse's reins to the horse post at the edge of the rough pavement, put out his hand and gripped her arm as she almost overbalanced.

"I do beg your pardon. I didn't see you ... Miss ... Miss ... you are Miss Dagshaw, aren't you?"

She blinked at the man. He was the one who had acknowledged the introduction that first day, when Miss Netherton had driven her to the school, and here on her last she was meeting him again.

"Are you all right?" He was looking into her face, and she closed her eyes for a moment before she said, "Yes, thank you, sir; I am all right. It was not your fault. I ... I wasn't looking where I was going because' she now forced herself to smile " I was in a temper, which could even be translated into the saying, blind with rage. So you see, it is my fault. But I am all right, thank you. " She made to move away, but his concern having obviously changed to merriment, she stopped, and he went on to say, " I won't dare ask what has put you into a rage.

But I understood from Miss Netherton that you were in a teaching post?

"

"I was, sir, up till about' she considered 'until twenty minutes or half an hour ago."

His shoulders began to shake again, and she herself laughed. The sound came out in small jerks. Then, remembering who she was, and who he was, she adopted a more sober air and her voice sounded slightly prim as she said, "Good day to you."

As she went to move past him he stopped her with his hand, which did not touch her but was held a foot or so from her as he said, "Since what you say suggests that you are no longer a teacher, at least for today, may I enquire if you are on your way home?"

"Yes. Yes, I am."

"And you mean to walk?"

"Well, sir, having no other means of propulsion except my legs, I mean to walk."

She watched him bring his chin into his high stiff collar for a moment; and further, she noticed that the points of it did not cause a ridge of flesh to form beneath his jaws, as with most men who wore such collars.

And then he said, "You know, you sounded just like Miss Netherton. Your turn of phrase and wit is a replica of hers."

Very likely she was talking like Miss Netherton because she had patterned herself on her mentor's speech for many years; but as for wit, she couldn't see that she had said anything at all that could merit that word.

"Look," he was saying now, "I've just got to slip into the post office; I want to send a telegram. So would you allow me to give you a lift home? If nothing else, it would take the weight off he paused 'your means of propulsion."

Ill

As she looked from him to the high, two-wheeled gig with but two seats, she asked herself if it was the right thing to do to accept his offer. What would Miss Netherton have done? Oh, she would have said, let's get away. But there was a great difference between herself and Miss Netherton in relation to this man. He was one of what was termed the gentry. In his eyes, even being a sort of schoolmarm she would still be considered a menial, and she didn't like that thought. She never felt like a menial. Miss Netherton had never made her feel like a menial.

"Thank you. That's very kind of you."

"Well then, would you care to come in out of the cold and wait while I do my business?"

She had never been in this post office. When she had gone to buy stamps for her father it had been from the small office near Bog's End.

"Thank you."

He said no more, but went a little ahead of her, and pushed open the door to allow her to pass into the large bare room that was cut in half by a counter.

Take a seat; I won't be a minute. " He pointed to a form fixed to the wall, and she sat down and watched him go to the far end of the counter and speak to the assistant, who handed him a form on which he then wrote something before handing it back, together with some money.

There were three other customers in the post office: one was walking towards the door when, as Simon Brodrick turned from the counter, he stopped and in a loud voice cried, "Well! Hello, you. What are you doing here at this time of the morning?"

"Oh, hello. Harry. Oh, just sending off a wire."

"How's everyone? Haven't seen you for two or three weeks. Missed you last time when Penella came over. What about next week?"

They were near the door now. Anna had risen to her feet and Simon Brodrick put out his hand towards her, but didn't speak. He opened the door and waited for her to pass him. And when they were in the street he did not introduce her to the man but, touching her elbow, helped her up onto the steep step of the gig, then onto the leather seat, before turning to the man, who was muttering something that was inaudible to her.

Simon loosened the horse's bridle from the post and took his seat beside Anna; then looking down at the man, he said, "Give my regards to the family," then shook the reins as he cried to the horse, "Gee up!

there," and off they went.

Anna didn't hear what the man replied, if he replied at all; she only knew he had all the while stared fixedly at her and that she, returning his gaze for a moment, experienced a feeling of embarrassment and unease.

They had passed through the outskirts of the town before Simon spoke, and then he said, "Will you be looking for another situation since, as it seems, you have lost or left your present one?"

"What? I mean, pardon?"

His voice a tone higher now, he said, "Will you be looking for another situation?"

"Not yet; well, not until after the holidays. In any case, I think I'll have difficulty in finding one. "

"How's that?"

"Well, firstly I don't think Miss Benfield will give me a reference, judging by our last conversation."

"Oh, a battle of words, was it?"

"Yes. You could say that. Biblical words."

He turned towards her and there was a note of surprise in his voice as he repeated, "Biblical words? You were arguing about the Bible?"

"Part of it."

"Really?"

She could tell by his tone that he was interested, and amused. She also told herself that he appeared to be a nice man, easy to talk to.

So she heard herself saying, "I was accused of corrupting the young ladies by allowing one of them to read a passage from the Bible."

"Accused of ... you mean, certain passages of the Bible touch on corruption?"

"It would appear so."

"May I ask which?"

She looked ahead as she said, "The Songs of Solomon."

She saw his hand jerk on the rein and she knew that once again his shoulders were shaking, and there was laughter in his voice too as he said, "You were teaching your pupils the Songs of Solomon?"

"No." The word was emphatic.

"One of them was out to teach me. She didn't know that I was acquainted with that part of the Bible and had been since Da ... my father introduced me to it years ago. The girl was bored with the Psalms, so she stood up and had rendered part of the second Song to the entire class before I had the wit to stop her. Then it appears that she entertained some friends at home with her repertoire. "

She drooped her head as she said. There was a meeting of parents and a storming of Miss Benfield. " Then after a moment her head came up as she ended, " And I was accused of corrupting young minds. "

"The Songs of Solomon."

"You find it funny ... amusing?"

"Yes. Yes, I do. And you do, too; I can tell by your tone, at least now. But you were in a fury, weren't you?"

"Yes. Yes, I was. Have you read the Songs of Solomon?"

"Yes, but many years ago in my schooldays, during the period of wrong constructions and false values."

There was a sober note to his voice now, and she said, "Is that how you look upon youth?"

"Yes. Well, at least mine. But you, now; I'm sure that your values will be utterly right and your constructions without error."

"I don't mind being laughed at. Dada ... my father, oh, why do I say that when I always call him Dada?" She twisted her body in the seat as if in defiance.

"So, I will repeat, Dada often laughs at me and my ideas. I'm quite used to it."

She was surprised when he made no reference at all to her last words and she thought. Oh, now he's recalling the gillyvor bit and Dada is the cause of it. And when, looking straight ahead, he remarked, "You would like to be put down at the quarry end,

wouldn't you? " she felt she had surmised correctly.

"How do you know that?"

"I know that you don't often travel through the village; I'm a friend of Miss Netherton's."

"Oh. Yes, of course. And yes, I would like to be put down at the quarry end."

About five minutes later he pulled the gig to a halt. The conversation had become desultory: he had spoken about the weather and the roads.

But quickly now, he alighted from his seat beside her and went round the vehicle to hold out his hands to assist her to the ground. And when they were standing facing each other, he said, "I must tell you something before you go, and I want you to believe that I'm not laughing at you. I'm not easily given to laughter, you know, but I haven't laughed as much as I've done this morning for a long, long time; and I would like you to know that I've enjoyed your company and our conversation to the extent that I can't look back to a time when I felt more interested in what a human being had to say. It is a great pity, at least I feel so, that I shall be deprived of such conversation in the future. Goodbye, Miss Dagshaw; and thank you."

His hand was held out to her, and after a moment's hesitation, she placed hers in it, and as their palms touched they looked steadily at each other.

She was moving away, walking with a straight back, down the narrow path towards the quarry. She knew that the gig was still there, and she wondered why she felt so strange, that she wanted to burst into tears, when just a short while ago she too had been laughing.

"Miss Netherton will be upset."

"No, she won't, my dear." Nathaniel put his hand on Maria's shoulder.

"She'll understand."

"You know, Nat, I become afraid for Anna at times. Her tongue is too ready: she comes out with things she should keep in her head, the things that you've put into her head. You know that?"

"Yes, I know, and I'm glad I've done that one good thing: I've made her think and be honest in her opinions, as well as fearless. Our children are all honest, but she is outstanding." A smile came on his lips now and he shook his head as he said, "Oh, I do wish I had been in on that last conversation or battle of words she had with Miss Benfield. If she said only half of what she thinks she said to that woman, then I am proud of her."

"It'll get her into trouble some day. That's what I'm afraid of, Nat."

"Well, my dear, if she gets into trouble it will be for a righteous cause."

"I don't know so much. You know what she said to me about the man who came out of the post office with Mr. Brodrick?"

"No."

"She said, " He looked at me in an odd way, Ma, sort of surprised yet familiar. " You see, Nat, underneath all her cleverness, she has still got to learn about life and men. I know exactly what was in that man's look because, there she was, about to drive away with Mr. Brodrick."

"It was Simon Brodrick she was with, dear. If it had been the other one, Raymond, then I would

have been anxious. But Simon is a married man with a three-year-old son. "

"Yes. And you can add to that, his wife is known as a vixen. And if you are to go by the tales that Miss Netherton's Rob gets from Robert Grafton, the coachman over there, then there is hell let loose in that house at times between him and his wife. And another thing, the two brothers don't seem to get on. The Raymond one acts God Almighty, if you can believe all you hear, and he's hated at his pit."

"Well, it isn't exactly his pit, it's his father's; at least the share that he holds; the other two owners keep out of the way. One, I'm told, lives on the South coast, at Brighton, where the life is as high as it is in London, and the other is abroad. But getting away from our dear Anna and her escort, to that poor lot in your barn. The men have gone into Gateshead Fell this morning to see if they can pick up work there. If one of them could get a job, he has a relative in the town who could house them, he says. Anyway, I shouldn't be surprised if sometime soon I shall be having a visit from one of the pit officials."

"Why?"

"Oh, to tell me what'll happen to us for harbouring agitators, troublemakers, riot-rousers. One thing, they can't turn us out of our house."

"Well, that being the case, what could they do?"

"Oh, there's all kinds of things they could do."

"What's on your mind, Nat? What could they do? Tell me."

"They could enclose the land roundabout, taking in the quarry."

"That's a right of way, has been for countless years. They can't do that."

"Possession has always been known to be nine points of the law, dear.

They'll do it first, then leave us to fight it afterwards, by which time we'll have a hard job to get out of here unless we go through the village; and that means all of us and at different times. And I can't escort every one of them, not from four o'clock in the morning onwards.

"

"He couldn't do that; he would be cutting off his nose to spite his face. I mean, Praggett would. Cherry wouldn't be able to get there, and Anna wouldn't be able to get to Miss Netherton's."

"Oh, yes, Anna would. She would go through the village. And yet I couldn't see that going on long before there would be trouble. Anyway, dear, let's talk about us. Tomorrow I'm going to see Parson Mason. You know, all those weeks ago, when I went to him, I think he would have been willing to marry us then if it had been left with him. But the dear Bishop got to know about it. And through whom? None other than the Holy Reverend Roland Albert Fawcett. Were we not two wicked persons? In the eyes of God we had sinned, and grievously. We had given birth to six wonderful children, happy, well-formed, intelligent children who could more than write their own names, they could pen a complete letter, even knowing how to address the person in question.