Our old friend, the cub-like lad,
Jem Wilson, had shot up into the powerful, well-made young man, with
a sensible face enough; nay, a face that might have been handsome,
had it not been here and there marked by the small-pox. He worked
with one of the great firms of engineers, who send from out their
towns of workshops engines and machinery to the dominions of the
Czar and the Sultan. His father and mother were never weary of
praising Jem, at all which commendation pretty Mary Barton would
toss her head, seeing clearly enough that they wished her to
understand what a good husband he would make, and to favour his
love, about which he never dared to speak, whatever eyes and looks
revealed.
One day, in the early winter time, when people were provided with
warm substantial gowns, not likely soon to wear out, and when,
accordingly, business was rather slack at Miss Simmonds', Mary met
Alice Wilson, coming home from her half-day's work at some
tradesman's house. Mary and Alice had always liked each other;
indeed, Alice looked with particular interest on the motherless
girl, the daughter of her whose forgiving kiss had comforted her in
many sleepless hours.
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