Mr Hale was seeing a young pupil to his study, when he saw Margaret take up her bonnet in anticipation of a walk.

'Oh! my good girl!' smiled he, looking upon his daughter fondly. 'You go to see Mrs Boucher?'

'I do, Papa. I shall return before you have finished your lessons for the day.'

'Indeed! Mr Thornton is taking tea with us this evening; do not be late,' enthused Mr Hale, just as Margaret coloured. Isabel had informed Margaret that she had confided in Mr Thornton about the happenings at Outwood station, and that he apportioned to Margaret no blame, but she had not seen the gentleman since that anxious evening spent in his presence, having managed to avoid him when he had called round for his previous two lessons. Still, the glimmer in her father's eyes, the vibrancy of his complexion and the pleasant intonation of his voice, made clear to Margaret, that Mr Thornton's visit was most welcome to her father, and he had been so low of late, that she forced herself to muster a smile and a promise that she would not tarry home.

Upon arriving at the Boucher's, Margaret found that Mrs Boucher was very ill - a true illness which looked to smite one down, and not merely a fancied ailment. A practical and kindly neighbour was sitting with the invalid, having seen to the children by sending them off to neighbouring houses; three of which were now with Mary Higgins. Nicholas, himself, had gone for the doctor, and although the doctor had not yet arrived to form his pronouncement, it was clear to all about the house, that Mrs Boucher was dying.

It was during this tense wait, that Mr Thornton wound his way through those dank and gloomy lanes of Princeton. He was no stranger to such poverty, and had many a time seen worse, when attending to his business as a magistrate, but still, his heart could not harden to those dreary faces; the sightless eyes of children who could not see the world for suffering; no beacon of hope upon the horizon, but merely another day of hunger and uncertainty, with each rising of the sun. The deeper he trod into the melee of ramshackle houses, the greater responsibility he felt for the workers' plight. Never before had he come this way - seen these sights - upon mill business. Always had he trod this route in the capacity of the magistrate; assessing glances, accepting the natural way of things, so that he may form impartial judgements. Now here, wending his way past lines strung up across the lanes, drying damp and tattered rags of clothing, he saw the life of his workers beyond his mills. He saw the starving faces, and the ones to whom the likes of Hamper sought to deny relief. He was not a pious man, but held within his heart a deep religion, and passionate man that he was, he could not be unmoved. No! thought he, I shall give the man work so that he may feed the children. I have opened up the infirmary to help them; I do my part and that is more than many others. He straightened his spine and held his head high, walking proudly through the rugged lanes of Princeton, yet for all his determination, and for all that he told himself he did a good thing, still the poverty struck him, and saddened that soft place within his heart.

He reached Francis Street, and after seeking directions, made for the Higgins home. There he found Nicholas Higgins sat about the house table, making a penny spin for three young children; all grubby faced and ragged-clothed, but with eager, excited eyes. Mr Thornton knocked hesitantly upon the open door, and Higgins looked sharply round.

'Master!' cried Higgins in surprise. Never had he known of a Master to come to the likes of Princeton.

'Are these your children?' asked Mr Thornton, frowning.

'Th' eldest - my Mary, ay. The three little 'uns belong t' th' family I spoke o'. Th' wife is sick an' likely dying. I called for th' doctor but 'e 'as not come.'

'You are waiting on a doctor?'

'Ay. When yo've not much brass t' pay 'em wi', they dun come none too sharpish,' replied the surly weaver.

'Know you a fast, reliable lad, who might run over to Crampton for Miss Darrow? She would come at once. I know she has a small medical supply of her own, from when she tended to Mrs Hale.' Higgins frowned and paused in thought.

'An' th' lass is a good doctor?'

'Ay! She stitched my head after the riot, despite being hurt, herself.'

'It were Miss Isabel then, caught up in the riot; not yo'r sister?'

'My sister!' cried Mr Thornton. 'Certainly not! Now man, know you a lad who can run fast to Crampton?'

'I do.' And Higgins strolled purposefully from that sparse little house, and called out for a lad named William. 'He's gone; th' lad won' be long. 'E's a fair runner,' said Higgins, stepping back inside the house. He looked to Mr Thornton suspiciously, suddenly confused by his appearance. 'Might I be helpin' yo' wi' sommat, Master?' his voice laced with amusement, at seeing the flicker of uncertainty cross Mr Thornton's face. Indeed, Mr Thornton felt quite discomposed, for the man had spoken no lie; he was seeing to a rabble of half-starved children. The father was dead, and by all accounts, the mother likely soon to follow. He had doubted Higgins unfairly and regretted his careless dismissal of the man from earlier that day.

'I came to ask if you will take work with me,' replied Mr Thornton, slowly. 'I was sceptical about your story - these children - but I see myself that it is true. I don't agree with telling a man how he may spend his money. You'd sign no pledge with me, but just as I'll not dictate to you how you spend your money, I'll not have you dictate to me how I spend mine. My wages are as I set them; they shall not change - not even if you strike - and I'll have no rabble-rousers at my mill, stirring up trouble where it's not wanted. So, my man, the question is, shall you take work with me?'

'Yo' think we could get along? Yo'r th' most stubborn Master o' th' lot! An' I like t' speak my mind. I'd tell yo' if I saw yo' doing wrong. I'd not go behind yo'r back, but I'll not hold my tongue, neither.'

'Well,' smiled Mr Thornton, wryly. 'I don't propose we get along, Higgins. I simply offer you work. You don't think yourself small beer, I must say - offering to tell me where I'm wrong. But no; I respect a man's right to his opinion; I'll not tell you not to have one, but I'll ask you to keep your head down. Don't go using that brain of yours to stir up trouble and I should think we'll be alright.'

'Sounds fair by me. 'Appen I'll 'ave 't leave my brains at home, then - case I'm forgettin' not t' use 'em.'

'Happen you might,' replied Mr Thornton, holding out his hand to formalise their agreement.

'Did the lass - Miss Isabel - change yo'r mind?' asked Higgins, with a knowing smile.

'I'm my own man, Higgins. I do what pleased me and no one else.'

'Appen it might please yo' to please the young miss?' asked Higgins, shrewdly, his eyes shining.

'And you might hold that tongue of yours if you wish to keep your place!' Higgins merely smirked; he knew the man to be quite besotted, and thought it showed good taste. Either of them two Crampton ladies would have done, mused Higgins, to himself. Miss Margaret is a fine beauty and never was there a kinder lass - so good to my poor wench - but Miss Isabel's a challenge; a spirited little thing. Hoo''ll keep 'im on 'is toes. No, 'e couldn't do better than one of those Crampton ladies, an' I just think 'e might have chosen rightly.

Here, Higgins was pulled from his thoughts by the heavy, clattering steps of young William, as he came running towards the cluster of ramshackle houses. Higgins went directly to the door, and peered out into the street.

'Did yo' find Miss Isabel, lad?'

'Ay! I did. She follows; she said her skirts were a hind -' He frowned and rolled his tongue. 'Hinder -' And here, his brows knit in confusion.

'A hindrance?' asked Mr Thornton, now stood beside Higgins at the door.

'Ay! Master. What does it mean?'

'It means she's no lady,' laughed Higgins. And the lady then came hurrying into the street, barely stifling the urge to openly run. She saw Mr Thornton stood in Higgins' doorway, but merely gave him a look as if to say "I know your purpose and I am glad, but I have not time to stop." Then she was gone; dashed into the Boucher house, the spindly, gnarly door closing roughly behind her.

Isabel stepped into the small house; the air stale and heavy with the closely-hanging shroud of death. Margaret was sat beside Mrs Boucher, looking imploringly into those filmy eyes, as though trying to bid her good courage to hold on; to rally for the sake of her children. The pragmatic neighbour stood backwards a little, knowing all too well that there was nothing to be done; that even if there was, the wretched Mrs Boucher - like her husband - had not the fight left in her.

'Let me see,' said Isabel, in that soft and quiet doctor's voice, which still managed to instil a sense of calm authority. Margaret drew back from the tragic woman and Isabel cast an assessing eye over her; fingers counting her pulse; an ear to her chest, listening to the weak, sporadic breaths, which when drawn, racked the body with a torrid rattle.

'I am dying!' gasped Mrs Boucher. 'Brought too low; they have killed me. He has killed me.'

'Are you afraid to die, Mrs Boucher?' asked Isabel, in a tone of voice which suggested to the invalid that she ought to have no fear.

'I cannot suffer more.' And the patient turned her feeble head upon her sunken pillow, and closed her eyes as though wishing for a permanent reprieve from her abysmal life.

'Should you like to see your children again, Mrs Boucher?' A long and laboured sigh, and a slight shaking of the head. Isabel frowned at the papery eyelids which remained resolutely shut; a gesture of the patient having now turned her back on the world and her children; reaching, clawing for the ultimate relief of death. 'You are tired,' said Isabel. 'A powder to help you sleep?' And Mrs Boucher nodded weakly in her grateful acquiescence, for she was flagging now, and for all she longed to be free of her tormenting life, she was afraid to meet her maker. The powder was made up, and spooned past the invalid's lips, with the delicate and steady hand of a lady well-accustomed to death and sorrow, and all the while Margaret looked on; anxious for those children and what would become of them if the mother died. Mrs Boucher fell asleep, never to awaken.

'The children?' asked Margaret, as a sheet was draped over Mrs Boucher's face.

'I should think the neighbours will take them in; Higgins will see them right,' announced Isabel, confidently.

'But Nicholas is out of work!'

'Perhaps not; I think he may have found work today.' But before Margaret could ask anything further on the matter, a portly, mean-faced man pushed his way into the house, and his sharp eyes looked assessingly from Margaret to Isabel, past the sensible neighbour, and over to the shrouded form of Mrs Boucher.

'I am too late, then?' said the man, with evident displeasure.

'Excuse me, sir, but what is your business here?' asked Isabel; her tone authoritative, as she straightened her spine and squared her shoulders in that brave, commanding way.

'I am the doctor, madam! Dr Price. And who are you?' snapped he, displeased at being questioned in such a way, and by a woman!

'I am the doctor who tended to Mrs Boucher when you did not come,' replied Isabel, defiantly.

'Doctor!' cried he. 'You are no doctor, madam. Perhaps you have tended to the sick or have a talent for nursing, but you are no doctor.'

'You are no doctor, sir. You did not come. Where were you?' And here, Isabel stepped closer to the man, and caught about him, the faint whiff of liquor.

'I was on a call - in Overton.'

'I called on yo' up past Wellin Street,' came Nicholas Higgins' gruff reply, as his shadow appeared to fill the doorway. 'What was yo' doing in Overton?'

'I had a call; I had to go there first,' replied the defiant doctor.

'Ay! Folk up Overton can pay more than folks round 'ere,' said Higgins, in disgust. 'Back o' th' queue, was it? She wa' dyin', man!'

'Then there was nothing to be done; I'm glad I went to Overton!'

'Nothing to be done!' came Isabel's impassioned reply, shaking her head in vexation. 'I gave her a powder so that she may sleep through that moment of death. Nothing to be done! You would have left her rasping for breath, afraid in her final moments; panting, sweating in her fear? You leave the poor to die like dogs and have the gall to call yourself a doctor!'

'Ay! Miss Isabel did more than yo'!' accused the neighbour. 'And hoo came from Crampton - on foot, too! - whilst yo' were up at Overton.'

'I don't know who you are, Miss, but you've no business telling me what I'm about, nor which patients I take on,' glowered Dr Price, as he took a threatening step towards Isabel. She looked up at him defiantly.

'I think you ought to go; there's no money to be made here!' He scowled, and looked as though to make some withering retort, but another - taller, more imposing - shadow, loomed about the doorway.

'The lady asked you to leave, sir,' came the cool, disapproving voice of Mr Thornton. His tone was so severe, and so undoubtable in its authority, that the shameful doctor quickly spun about; his great girth heaving with exertion.

'Mr Thornton, sir,' bustled the odious doctor, discomposed at having before him the stern businessman and magistrate.

'The lady is dead; your business here is done,' urged Mr Thornton, once more.

'This woman - I know not who she is - but she had the affront to -' But Mr Thornton took an agile step past Higgins, and placed himself before the doctor, drawing himself up to his full height; letting the man feel the intimidation of his great strength and breadth.

'The lady you speak of is my doctor up at Marlborough Mills, and whilst Higgins here, sent off for you over an hour ago, Miss Darrow was sent for and came within twenty minutes, even though she had to come from Crampton on foot - I see your carriage up the way. Be gone, man!'

'You employ a lady up at Marlborough Mills - as a doctor!' exclaimed Dr Price, in alarm. 'A woman!' Mr Thornton's eyes flashed with indignation. Not only did the foolish doctor openly question how he chose to run his mill - who he chose to employ - but the scathing way in which he had cried "A woman!", and the horrified look of disdain which he has bestowed upon Isabel, at the realisation that a Milton man of note seemed unafraid to acknowledge her as the doctor's equal, was offensive and utterly disrespectful to the woman he loved. The doctor - foolish as he was - was no simpleton. He caught the fierce, impassioned look in Mr Thornton's eye; the gruff vexation of Nicholas Higgins, and the upbraiding reproof of all three women, and hurriedly took himself off.

'Well!' sighed Mr Thornton, a weary glance at Isabel, 'I should say word will now travel fast, and soon all shall know we hold an infirmary up at Marlborough Mills. You may have your patients sooner that you had thought, Miss Darrow.' And tipping his hat to the ladies in the room, he turned on his heel and made for home, for he would not dare to linger, for fear of betraying his feelings to those three unwanted observers.

'And how were the Boucher children when you left them, my dear?' asked Mr Hale, as Margaret poured the tea. She was mindful of Mr Thornton watching her and she thought that he must secretly still disapprove of her for ever having lied to the police inspector, but she did not know that he looked at her with a curious amusement, thinking how wholly impossible it would be for him to fall out of love with Isabel, and in love with Miss Hale.

He still thought her a beauty, of course, and he knew her to be superior to any Milton lady he knew of. She was independent and unafraid to speak her mind - qualities he so much admired in Isabel - but he thought her too prone to prejudice - too quick to judge. She appeared to hold such staunch opinions, and based upon so little knowledge! She was so very determined and proud, that she did not seem inclined to listen to reason, nor let her opinions be swayed once they had been formed. Higgins was a prime example of where Margaret thought with her heart, and once a side was chosen, she was impervious to any evidence of her own personal bias.

No! thought Mr Thornton, as he watched Margaret's silly ornament plague her, as it fell from her wrist to her hand, where she would hastily push it back up that rounded, taper arm. What women endure for fashion, thought Mr Thornton; knowing only too well, that his Isabel would never tolerate such a encumbrance. No! I could not love Miss Hale - not for all her beauty or keenness of mind; nor for all her compassion and wilful independence. She has not the unwavering spirit of my Isabel. She lowers her eyes at me in fear of my judgement. She wilfully misunderstood me and was openly hostile; now I am merely tolerated. She has a cold heart, he told himself. It will warm, no doubt, for the right man, but he is not I. Assuredly not for her - she would never stoop so low as me - and certainly not for I, for I could never love any but Isabel.

And here, as though just to confirm how wrong for each other they were - how perfect for him Isabel was - Margaret stumbled in her ministrations, and a subtle frown dipped her brows. Mr Hale did not notice, for he was happily talking about the new stipulations imposed on the workers by the likes of Hamper, but Mr Thornton - watchful at that moment - saw Margaret's hesitation, and was amused to surmise that she had forgotten how he took his tea. He saw a faint blush creep up her neck, and suffuse her cheeks, as she realised her blunder - too embarrassed to ask for a correction - and then, catching Isabel's eye, he saw - to his delight - the subtle inclination of Isabel's head, silently and unobtrusively enlightening Margaret as to Mr Thornton's preference. He felt a flood of warmth within his breast, and thought - in that foolish, impassioned moment - that he should like to visit the infirmary one afternoon and take tea with her.

'No,' replied Mr Thornton, suddenly realising that a silence hung about the room, as Mr Hale awaited a response to his question. 'No; I am not in favour of any Master telling his hands how they may spend their money. And still, I cannot interfere in another man's endeavours - in how he chooses to run his own business - or I should be trenching upon him. I can only run my own mill as I see fit, and that is what I do.' Here, he turned to Isabel (who was sat beside Margaret) and said, 'I have taken Higgins on. He may pay into his Union or give up his wages for a starving turn-out - it matters not to me - but he's gone if he causes me trouble. The first hint of strike talk, and he's out!'

'That is very good; it is as it should be,' smiled Isabel, demurely. But to Margaret, this was a complete surprise, and so it was her response, which was the most feeling; it was she who expressed the most gratitude.

'Oh! Mr Thornton; that is wonderful news. We were very worried about Nicholas, were we not, Papa?'

'Yes, my dear,' came Mr Hale's smiling reply.

'It is very good of you; you are a kind man, sir.'