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“But I getten welly over it at last, an’ we was beginnin’ to come round a bit an’ look forrard to th’ toime we’d see him agen ‘stead o’ luokin’ back to th’ toime we shut th’ round bit of a face under th’ coffin-lid. Th’ day comn when we could bear to talk about him an’ moind things he’d said an’ tried to say i’ his broken babby way. An’ so we wur creepin’ back again to th’ old happy quiet, an’ we had been for welly six month, when summat fresh come. I’ll never forget it, Mester, th’ neet it happened. I’d kissed Rosanna at th’ door an’ left her standin’ theer when I went up to th’ village to buy summat she wanted. It wur a bright moon light neet, just such a neet as this, an’ th’ lass had followed me out to see th’ moonshine, it wur so bright an’ clear; an’ just before I starts she folds both her hands on my shoulder an’ says, soft an’ thoughtful:–

“‘Tim, I wonder if th’ little chap sees us?’

“‘I’d loike to know, dear lass,’ I answers back. An’ then she speaks again:–

“‘Tim, I wonder if he’d know he was ours if he could see, or if he’d ha’ forgot? He wur such a little fellow.’

“Them wur th’ last peaceful words I ever heerd her speak. I went up to th’ village an’ getten what she sent me fur, an’ then I comn back. Th’ moon wur shinin’ as bright as ever, an’ th’ flowers i’ her slip o’ a garden wur aw sparklin’ wi’ dew. I seed ’em as I went up th’ walk, an’ I thowt again of what she’d said bout th’ little lad.

“She wasna outside, an’ I couldna see a leet about th’ house, but I heerd voices, so I walked straight in–into th’ entry an’ into th’ kitchen, an’ theer she wur, Mester–my poor wench, crouchin’ down by th’ table, hidin’ her face i’ her hands, an’ close beside her wur a mon–a mon i’ red sojer clothes.

“My heart leaped into my throat, an’ fur a min nit I hadna a word, fur I saw summat wui up, though I couldna tell what it wur. But at last my voice come back.

“‘Good evenin’, Mester,’ I says to him; ‘I hope yo’ ha’not broughten ill-news? What ails thee, dear lass?’

“She stirs a little, an’ gives a moan like a dyin’ child; and then she lifts up her wan, brokenhearted face, an’ stretches out both her hands to me.

“‘Tim,’ she says, ‘dunnot hate me, lad, dunnot. I thowt he wur dead long sin’. I thowt ‘at th’ Rooshans killed him an’ I wur free, but I amna. I never wur. He never deed, Tim, an’ theer he is–the mon as I wur wed to an’ left by. God forgi’ him, an’ oh, God forgi’ me!’

“Theer, Mester, theer’s a story fur thee. What dost ta’ think o’t? My poor lass wasna my wife at aw–th’ little chap’s mother wasna his feyther’s wife, an’ never had been. That theer worthless fellow as beat an’ starved her an’ left her to fight th’ world alone, had comn back alive an’ well, ready to begin agen. He could tak’ her away fro’ me any hour i’ th’ day, and I couldna say a word to bar him. Th’ law said my wife–th’ little dead lad’s mother–belonged to him, body an’ soul. Theer was no law to help us–it wur aw on his side.

“Theer’s no use o’ goin’ o’er aw we said to each other i’ that dark room theer. I raved an’ prayed an’ pled wi’ th’ lass to let me carry her across th’ seas, wheer I’d heerd tell theer was help fur such loike; but she pled back i’ her broken, patient way that it wouldna be reet, an’ happen it wur the Lord’s will. She didna say much to th’ sojer. I scarce heerd her speak to him more than once, when she axed him to let her go away by hersen.