'The steps of the bearers, heavy and slow,

The sobs of the mourners, deep and low.'

SHELLEY.

At the time arranged the previous day, they set out on their walk

to see Nicholas Higgins and his daughter. They both were reminded

of their recent loss, by a strange kind of shyness in their new

habiliments, and in the fact that it was the first time, for many

weeks, that they had deliberately gone out together. They drew

very close to each other in unspoken sympathy.

Nicholas was sitting by the fire-side in his accustomed corner:

but he had not his accustomed pipe. He was leaning his head upon

his hand, his arm resting on his knee. He did not get up when he

saw them, though Margaret could read the welcome in his eye.

'Sit ye down, sit ye down. Fire's welly out,' said he, giving it

a vigorous poke, as if to turn attention away from himself. He

was rather disorderly, to be sure, with a black unshaven beard of

several days' growth, making his pale face look yet paler, and a

jacket which would have been all the better for patching.

'We thought we should have a good chance of finding you, just

after dinner-time,' said Margaret.

'We have had our sorrow too, since we saw you,' said Mr. Hale.

'Ay, ay. Sorrows is more plentiful than dinners just now; I

reckon, my dinner hour stretches all o'er the day; yo're pretty

sure of finding me.' 'Are you out of work?' asked Margaret.

'Ay,' he replied shortly. Then, after a moment's silence, he

added, looking up for the first time: 'I'm not wanting brass.

Dunno yo' think it. Bess, poor lass, had a little stock under her

pillow, ready to slip into my hand, last moment, and Mary is

fustian-cutting. But I'm out o' work a' the same.' 'We owe Mary some money,' said Mr. Hale, before Margaret's sharp

pressure on his arm could arrest the words.

'If hoo takes it, I'll turn her out o' doors. I'll bide inside

these four walls, and she'll bide out. That's a'.' 'But we owe her many thanks for her kind service,' began Mr. Hale

again.

'I ne'er thanked yo'r daughter theer for her deeds o' love to my

poor wench. I ne'er could find th' words. I'se have to begin and

try now, if yo' start making an ado about what little Mary could

sarve yo'.' 'Is it because of the strike you're out of work?' asked Margaret

gently.

'Strike's ended. It's o'er for this time. I'm out o' work because

I ne'er asked for it. And I ne'er asked for it, because good

words is scarce, and bad words is plentiful.' He was in a mood to take a surly pleasure in giving answers that

were like riddles. But Margaret saw that he would like to be

asked for the explanation.




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