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 minnit I hadna a word.

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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; an' then she lifts up her wan, broken-hearted 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' Rooshians 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. 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. He could tak' her away fro' me any hour i' th' day, an' 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.

"Tha canna want me now, Phil,' she said. 'Tha canna 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 the villain held to her. If she didna come wi' him, he said, he'd ha' us 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 was on'y one thing: th' wife mun go wi' th' husband, an' theer th' husband stood-a scoundrel, cursing, 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.

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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 to me, an' she spoke still an' strained as if she wur too heart-broke to be wild. Her face was as white as th' dead, but she didna cry, as any other woman would ha' done. Come, Tim,' she said, 'he canna say no to that.'

"An' so out we went, 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 ef her death-wound had been give to her.

"Little lad,' she says, 'little lad, dost ta see thee

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, fur 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 canna 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. 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 sight, let that be my reward. I'd be willin' to gi' up a bit o' fur th' dear lad's sake.'

as wur worthy i' Thy Dear Lord-a'-moighty, my own heavenly glory

"Happen th' Lord had hearkened-happen He had, fur when she getten up, her face looked to me aw white an' shinin' i' th' clear moonlight.

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Sit down by me, dear lad,' she said, 'an' hold my hand a minnit.'

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 hand 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 ef theer dunnot, dear lad―

an' I dunnot see how theer could-ef 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, an' watch out wi' him nigh th' gate, an' 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 is na much more to tell, Mester-th' eend's comin' now. 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' print 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 longnamed heart-disease, an' she'd prayed 'em to send fur me, an' one o' th' young soft-hearted 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. I knelt down by th' bedside an' I plead wi' her as she lay theer, until I browt her back to th' world agin fur one moment. Her eyes flew wide open at onct and she seed me an' smiled, aw her dear face quiverin', i' death.

"Dear lad,' she whispered, 'th' path was na so long after aw. Th' Lord knew-He trod it hissen onct, yo know. I know tha'd come-I prayed so. I've reached th' very eend, now, Tim, an' I shall see th' little lad first. But I wunnot forget my promise-no. I'll look out for thee-for thee—at'th' gate"

"An' her eyes shut slow an' quiet, an' I knowed she was dead.

"Theer, Mester Doncaster, theer it aw is, for theer she lies under th' daisies cloost by her child, fur I browt her here an' buried her. Th' fellow as come betwixt us had tortured her fur a while an' then left her again. It wur heart-disease as killed her, the medical chaps said, but I knowed better-it wur heart-break. That's aw. Sometimes I think o'er it till I canna stand it any longer, an' I'm fain to come here an' lay my hand on th' grass-an' sometimes I ha' queer dreams about her. I had one last neet. I thowt 'at she come to me aw at onct just as she used to look, on'y wi' her white face shinin' loike a star, an' she says, 'Tim, th' path isna so long after aw— tha's come nigh to th' eend, an' me an' th' little chap is waitin.'

"That's why I comn here to-neet, Mester; an' I believe that's why I've talked so free to thee. If I'm near th' eend, I'd loike some one to know. I ha' meant no hurt when I seemed grum an' surly. It wurna ill-will, but a heavy heart."