But really, miss, you oughtn't to be out like this after dark.

There's too many vagabonds about." With but little need of the help Mary yet gave him, Joseph got up, and led her to what was now a respectable little smithy, with forge and bellows and anvil and bucket.

Opening a door where had been none, he brought a chair, and making her sit down, began to blow the covered fire on the hearth, where he had not long before "boiled his kettle" for his tea.

Then closing the door, he lighted a candle, and Mary looking about her could scarcely believe the change that had come upon the miserable vacuity.

Joseph sat down upon his anvil, and begged to know where she had just been, and how far she had run from the rascal.
When he had learned something of the peculiar relations in which Mary stood to the family at Durnmelling, he began to think there might have been something more in the pursuit than a chance ruffianly assault, and the greater were his regrets that he had not secured the miscreant.
"Anyhow, miss," he said, "you'll never come from there alone in the dark again!" "I understand you, Joseph," answered Mary, "for I know you would not have me leave doing what I can for the poor man up there, because of a little danger in the way." "No, that I wouldn't, miss.