By 1845, events in the British Isles included the invention of the rubber band, the production of self-rising flour and the infamous Jack the Ripper claimed his first victim. None of these have made the slightest ripple in Holmeside, where everyday life has not changed enough to be worth talking about, except for the disappearance of old faces and the birth of new ones. Otherwise, life continued predictably as it had since the Luddite revolt, although few were old enough to remember much about it. The Holmeside factory workers soon died, as did all the workers. Sarah Gledhill was an exception. He outlived most of his contemporaries. There had been some change here, but it had happened so slowly as to be imperceptible. Sarah's home, White Cottage on the edge of the moorland above the village, was no longer white. Like other buildings in that environment, it was encrusted with soot from the forest of smoky chimneys, augmented by Outcote Mill's giant smokestack. No amount of rain could clean the buildings. When Sarah was offered the lease of the White Cottage, it had stood guard for more than three hundred years. For most of the time it had been accommodation for shepherds. When sheep farming declined, White Cottage was just another building owned by Outcote Mill and had all the inconveniences common to the old places. Sarah Gledhill jumped at the opportunity to live there when she retired. He paid the rent of a peppercorn, a kind gesture to an old woman who had been the mill's maid for more than half a century and whose reputation for honesty, thrift and hard work was widely known. He chose the cottage for the view from its windows, both on the front of the house, one on either side of the door. Looking left at her with... in the center of the paper... your punishments are too harsh. God bless you all. Sarah Ludd.” Smiling, he put the letter back in its place and ate dinner with thanks. Taking the pencil, he broke the tip on the table, vowing never to write with it again. “I won't write anymore. I have nothing else to say and I am very tired." He drew the window curtains and walked over to his bed in the corner. Before reaching it he turned to the table and took the letter of the Bible. Then he went to bed in the far corner of the living room clutching the letter to his heart. She blew out the candle and lay in the dark, rustling the letter between her fingers, muttering, “Seth. Oh, Seth, my Seth, I'm so tired. He pulled the covers up under his chin to keep the cold away. He fell asleep. At a certain point, during that long and silent night, his soul took flight.