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“‘Tha conna want me now, Phil,’ she said. ‘Tha conna care fur me. Tha must know I’m more this mon’s wife than thine. But I dunnot ax thee to gi’ me to him because I know that wouldna be reet; I on’y ax thee to let me aloan. I’ll go fur enough off an’ never see him more.’

“But th’ villain held to her. If she didna come wi’ him, he said, he’d ha’ her up before th’ court fur bigamy. I could ha’ done murder then, Mester, an’ I would ha’ done if it hadna been for th’ poor lass runnin’ in betwixt us an’ pleadin’ wi’ aw her might. If we’n been rich foak theer might ha’ been some help fur her, at least; th’ law might ha’ been browt to mak’ him leave her be, but bein’ poor workin’ foak theer wur on’y one thing: th’ wife mun go wi’ th’ husband, an’ theer th’ husband stood–a scoundrel, cursin’, wi’ his black heart on his tongue.

“‘Well,’ says th’ lass at last, fair wearied out wi’ grief, ‘I’ll go wi’ thee, Phil, an’ I’ll do my best to please thee, but I wunnot promise to forget th’ mon as has been true to me, an’ has stood betwixt me an’ th’ world.’

“Then she turned round to me.

“‘Tim,’ she said to me, as if she wur haaf feart–aye, feart o’ him, an’ me standin’ by. Three hours afore, th’ law ud ha’ let me mill any mon ‘at feart her. ‘Tim,’ she says, ‘surely he wunnot refuse to let us go together to th’ little lad’s grave–fur th’ last time.’ She didna speak to him but ti me, an’ she spoke still an’ strained as if she wui too heart-broke to be wild. Her face was as white as th’ dead, but she didna cry, as ony other woman would ha’ done. ‘Come, Tim,’ she said, ‘he conna say no to that.’

“An’ so out we went ‘thout another word, an’ left th’ black-hearted rascal behind, sittin’ i’ th’ very room th’ little un deed in. His cradle stood theer i’ th’ corner. We went out into th’ moonlight ‘thout speakin’, an’ we didna say a word until we come to this very place, Mester.

“We stood here for a minute silent, an’ then I sees her begin to shake, an’ she throws hersen down on th’ grass wi’ her arms flung o’er th’ grave, an’ she cries out as if her death-wound had been give to her.

“‘Little lad,’ she says, ‘little lad, dost ta see thy mother? Canst na tha hear her callin’ thee? Little lad, get nigh to th’ Throne an’ plead!’

“I fell down beside o’ th’ poor crushed wench an’ sobbed wi’ her. I couldna comfort her, for wheer wur there any comfort for us? Theer wur none left–theer wur no hope. We was shamed an’ broke down–our lives was lost. Th’ past wur nowt–th’ future wur worse. Oh, my poor lass, how hard she tried to pray–fur me, Mester–yes, fur me, as she lay theer wi’ her arms round her dead babby’s grave, an’ her cheek on th’ grass as grew o’er his breast. ‘Lord God-a’-moighty, she says, ‘help us–dunnot gi’ us up–dunnot, dunnot. We conna do ‘thowt thee now, if th’ time ever wur when we could. Th’ little chap mun be wi’ thee, I moind th’ bit o’ comfort about getherin’ th’ lambs i’ his bosom. An’, Lord, if tha could spare him a minnit, send him down to us wi’ a bit o’ leet. Oh, Feyther! help th’ poor lad here–help him. Let th’ weight fa’ on me, not on him. Just help th’ poor lad to bear it. If ever I did owt as wur worthy i’ thy sight, let that be my reward. Dear Lord-a’-moighty, I’d be willin’ to gi’ up a bit o’ my own heavenly glory fur th’ dear lad’s sake.’