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“Well, Mester, she lay theer on th’ grass pray in’ an crying wild but gentle, fur nigh haaf an hour, an’ then it seemed ‘at she got quoite loike, an’ she got up. Happen th’ Lord had hearkened an’ sent th’ child–happen He had, fur when she getten up her face looked to me aw white an’ shinin’ i’ th’ clear moonlight.

“‘Sit down by me, dear lad,’ she said, ‘an’ hold my hand a minnit.’ I set down an’ took hold of her hand, as she bid me.

“‘Tim,’ she said, ‘this wur why th’ little chap deed. Dost na tha see now ‘at th’ Lord knew best?’

“‘Yes, lass,’ I answers humble, an’ lays my face on her hand, breakin’ down again.

“‘Hush, dear lad,’ she whispers, ‘we hannot time fur that. I want to talk to thee. Wilta listen?’

“‘Yes, wife,’ I says, an’ I heerd her sob when I said it, but she catches hersen up again.

“‘I want thee to mak’ me a promise,’ said she. ‘I want thee to promise never to forget what peace we ha’ had. I want thee to remember it allus, an’ to moind him ‘at’s dead, an’ let his little hond howd thee back fro’ sin an’ hard thowts. I’ll pray fur thee neet an’ day, Tim, an’ tha shalt pray fur me, an’ happen theer’ll come a leet. But if theer dunnot, dear lad–an’ I dunnot see how theer could–if theer dunnot, an’ we never see each other agen, I want thee to mak’ me a promise that if tha sees th’ little chap first tha’lt moind him o’ me, and watch out wi’ him nigh th’ gate, and I’ll promise thee that if I see him first, I’ll moind him o’ thee an’ watch out true an’ constant.’

“I promised her, Mester, as yo’ can guess, an’ we kneeled down an’ kissed th’ grass, an’ she took a bit o’ th’ sod to put i’ her bosom. An’ then we stood up an’ looked at each other, an’ at last she put her dear face on my breast an’ kissed me, as she had done every neet sin’ we were mon an’ wife.

“‘Good-bye, dear lad,’ she whispers–her voice aw broken. ‘Doant come back to th’ house till I’m gone. Good-bye, dear, dear, lad, an’ God bless thee.’ An’ she slipped out o’ my arms an’ wur gone in a moment awmost before I could cry out.

“Theer isna much more to tell, Mester–th’ eend’s comin’ now, an’ happen it’ll shorten off th’ story, so ‘at it seems suddent to thee. But it were-na suddent to me. I lived alone here, an’ worked, an’ moinded my own business, an’ answered no questions fur nigh about a year, hearin’ nowt, an’ seein’ nowt, an’ hopin’ nowt, till one toime when th’ daisies were blowin’ on th’ little grave here, theer come to me a letter fro’ Manchester fro’ one o’ th’ medical chaps i’ th’ hospital. It wur a short letter wi’ prent on it, an’ the moment I seed it I knowed summat wur up, an’ I opened it tremblin’. Mester, theer wur a woman lyin’ i’ one o’ th’ wards dyin’ o’ some long-named heart-disease, an’ she’d prayed ’em to send fur me, an’ one o’ th’ young softhearted ones had writ me a line to let me know.

“I started aw’most afore I’d finished readin’ th’ letter, an’ when I getten to th’ place I fun just what I knowed I should. I fun her–my wife–th’ blessed lass, an’ ‘f I’d been an hour later I would-na ha’ seen her alive, fur she were nigh past knowin’ me then.

“But I knelt down by th’ bedside an’ I plead wi’ her as she lay theer, until I browt her back to th world again fur one moment. Her eyes flew wide open aw at onct, an’ she seed me an’ smiled, aw her dear face quiverin’ i’ death.