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I never left off loving thee, Lizzie. I was always a-thinking of thee. Thy father forgave thee afore he died." Whate'er thou art or hast been, we'll ne'er speak on't. We'll leave th' oud times behind us, and go back to the Upclose Farm. I but left it to find thee, my lass; and God has led me to thee. Blessed be His name. And God is good, too, Lizzie.
Before the wild daffodils were in flower in the sheltered copses round Upclose Farm, the Leighs were settled in their Manchester home; if they could ever grow to consider that place as a home, where there was no garden or outbuilding, no fresh breezy outlet, no far-stretching view, over moor and hollow; no dumb animals to be tended, and, what more than all they missed, no old haunting memories, even though those remembrances told of sorrow, and the dead and gone.
That night they lay in each other's arms; but Susan slept on the ground beside them. They dared not lay her by the stern grandfather in Milne Row churchyard, but they bore her to a lone moorland graveyard, where, long ago, the Quakers used to bury their dead. They laid her there on the sunny slope, where the earliest spring flowers blow. Will and Susan live at the Upclose Farm. Mrs.
"Wouldst like to go to Upclose Farm?" asked she, sorrowfully. "It's just blackberrying time," said Tom. Will shook his head. She looked at him awhile, as if trying to read that expression of despondency, and trace it back to its source. "Will and Tom could go," said she; "I must stay here till I've found her, thou knowest," continued she, dropping her voice.
So passed the Christmas evening in the Upclose Farm. The snow had fallen heavily over the dark waving moorland before the day of the funeral. The black storm-laden dome of heaven lay very still and close upon the white earth, as they carried the body forth out of the house which had known his presence so long as its ruling power.
The Upclose Farm had belonged for generations to the Leighs; and yet its possession hardly raised them above the rank of labourers.
Thou'lt have Upclose at my death; and as for that, I could let thee have it now, and keep mysel' by doing a bit of charring. It seems to me a very backwards sort o' way of winning her to think of leaving Manchester." "Oh, mother, she's so gentle and so good she's downright holy. She's never known a touch of sin; and can I ask her to marry me, knowing what we do about Lizzie, and fearing worse?
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