'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.