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“‘Tim,’ she’d say, ‘this is on’y th’ skoo’ an we’re th’ scholars, an’ He’s teachin’ us his way We munnot be loike th’ children o’ Israel i’ th’ Wilderness, an’ turn away fro’ th’ cross ’cause o’ th’ Sarpent. We munnot say, “Theer’s a snake:” we mun say, “Theer’s th’ Cross, an’ th’ Lord gi’ it to us.” Th’ teacher wouldna be o’ much use, Tim, if th’ scholars knew as much as he did, an’ I allus think it’s th’ best to comfort mysen wi’ sayin’, “Th’ Lord-a’-moighty, He knows.”‘

“An’ she alius comforted me too when I wur worretted. Life looked smooth somewhow them three year. Happen th’ Lord sent ’em to me to make up fur what wur comin’.

“At th’ eend o’ th’ first year th’ child wur born, th’ little lad here,” touching the turf with his hand, “‘Wee Wattie’ his mother ca’d him, an’ he wur a fine, lightsome little chap. He filled th’ whole house wi’ music day in an’ day out, crowin’ an’ crowin’–an’ cryin’ too sometime. But if ever yo’re a feyther, Mester, yo’ll find out ‘at a baby’s cry’s music often enough, an’ yo’ll find, too, if yo’ ever lose one, ‘at yo’d give all yo’d getten just to hear even th’ worst o’ cryin’. Rosanna she couldna find i’ her heart to set th’ little un out o’ her arms a minnit, an’ she’d go about th’ room wi’ her eyes aw leeted up, an’ her face bloomin’ like a slip o’ a girl’s, an’ if she laid him i’ th’ cradle her head ‘ud be turnt o’er har shoulder aw th’ time lookin’ at him an’ singin’ bits o’ sweet-soundin’ foolish woman-folks’ songs. I thowt then ‘at them old nursery songs wur th’ happiest music I ever heard, an’ when ‘Sanna sung ’em they minded me o’ hymn-tunes.

“Well, Mester, before th’ spring wur out Wee Wat was toddlin’ round holdin’ to his mother’s gown, an’ by th’ middle o’ th’ next he was cooin’ like a dove, an’ prattlin’ words i’ a voice like hers. His eyes wur big an’ brown an’ straightforrad like hers, an’ his mouth was like hers, an’ his curls wur the color o’ a brown bee’s back. Happen we set too much store by him, or happen it wur on’y th’ Teacher again teachin’ us his way, but hows’ever that wur, I came home one sunny mornin’ fro’ th’ factory, an’ my dear lass met me at th’ door, all white an’ cold, but tryin’ hard to be brave an’ help me to bear what she had to tell.

“‘Tim,’ said she, ‘th’ Lord ha’ sent us a trouble; but we can bear it together, conna we, dear lad?’

“That wur aw, but I knew what it meant, though th’ poor little lamb had been well enough when I kissed him last.

“I went in an’ saw him lyin’ theer on his pillows strugglin’ an’ gaspin’ in hard convulsions, an’ I seed aw was over. An’ in half an hour, just as th’ sun crept across th’ room an’ touched his curls th’ pretty little chap opens his eyes aw at once.

“‘Daddy!’ he crows out. ‘Sithee Dad–! an’ he lift’ hissen up, catches at th’ floatin’ sun shine, laughs at it, and fa’s back–dead, Mester.

“I’ve allus thowt ‘at th’ Lord-a’-moighty knew what He wur doin’ when he gi’ th’ woman t’ Adam i’ th’ Garden o’ Eden. He knowed he wur nowt but a poor chap as couldna do fur hissen; an’ I suppose that’s th’ reason he gi’ th’ woman th’ strength to bear trouble when it comn. I’d ha’ gi’en clean in if it hadna been fur my lass when th’ little chap deed. I never tackledt owt i’ aw my days ‘at hurt me as heavy as losin’ him did. I couldna abear th’ sight o’ his cradle, an’ if ever I comn across any o’ his bits o’ playthings, I’d fa’ to cryin’ an’ shakin’ like a babby. I kept out o’ th’ way o’ th’ neebors’ children even. I wasna like Rosanna. I couldna see quoite clear what th’ Lord meant, an’ I couldna help murmuring sad and heavy. That’s just loike us men, Mester; just as if th’ dear wench as had give him her life fur food day an’ neet, hadna fur th’ best reet o’ th’ two to be weak an’ heavy-hearted.