"SURLY TIM. " A LANCASHIRE STORY. By Frances Hodgson Burnett Copyright, 1877 "Sorry to hear my fellow-workmen speak so disparagin' o' me? Well, Mester, that's as it may be yo' know. Happen my fellow-workmen ha' madea bit o' a mistake--happen what seems loike crustiness to them beant somuch crustiness as summat else--happen I mought do my bit o' complainin'too. Yo' munnot trust aw yo' hear, Mester; that's aw I can say. " I looked at the man's bent face quite curiously, and, judging from itsrather heavy but still not unprepossessing outline, I could not reallycall it a bad face, or even a sulky one. And yet both managers andhands had given me a bad account of Tim Hibblethwaite. "Surly Tim, " theycalled him, and each had something to say about his sullen dispositionto silence, and his short answers. Not that he was accused of anythinglike misdemeanor, but he was "glum loike, " the factory people said, and"a surly fellow well deserving his name, " as the master of his room hadtold me. I had come to Lancashire to take the control of my father'sspinning-factory a short time before, being anxious to do my best towardthe hands, and, I often talked to one and another in a friendly way, sothat I could the better understand their grievances and remedy them withjustice to all parties concerned. So in conversing with men, women, andchildren, I gradually found out that Tim Hibblethwaite was in bad odor, and that he held himself doggedly aloof from all; and this was how, inthe course of time, I came to speak to him about the matter, and theopening words of my story are the words of his answer. But they did notsatisfy me by any means. I wanted to do the man justice myself, and seethat justice was done to him by others; and then again when, after mycurious look at him, he lifted his head from his work and drew the backof his hand across his warm face, I noticed that he gave his eyes abrush, and, glancing at him once more, I recognized the presence of amoisture in them. In my anxiety to conceal that I had noticed anything unusual, I amafraid I spoke to him quite hurriedly. I was a young man then, and by nomeans as self-possessed as I ought to have been. "I hope you won't misunderstand me, Hibblethwaite, " I said; "I don't mean to complain--indeed, I have nothing to complainof, for Foxley tells me you are the steadiest and most orderly hand hehas under him; but the fact is, I should like to make friends with youall, and see that no one is treated badly. And somehow or other I foundout that you were not disposed to feel friendly towards the rest, and Iwas sorry for it. But I suppose you have some reason of your own. " The man bent down over his work again, silent for a minute, to mydiscomfiture, but at last he spoke, almost huskily. "Thank yo', Mester, " he said; "yo're a koindly chap or yo' wouldn't ha'noticed. An' yo're not fur wrong either. I ha' reasons o' my own, tho'I'm loike to keep 'em to mysen most o' toimes. Th' fellows as throwstheir slurs on me would na understond 'em if I were loike to gab, whichI never were. But happen th' toime 'll come when Surly Tim 'll tell hisown tale, though I often think its loike it wunnot come till th' Day o'Judgment. " "I hope it will come before then, " I said, cheerfully. "I hope the timeis not far away when we shall all understand you, Hibblethwaite. I thinkit has been misunderstanding so far which has separated you from therest, and it cannot last always, you know. " But he shook his head--not after a surly fashion, but, as I thought, atrifle sadly or heavily--so I did not ask any more questions, or try toforce the subject upon him. But I noticed him pretty closely as time went on, and the more I saw ofhim the more fully I was convinced that he was not so surly as peopleimagined. He never interfered with the most active of his enemies, nor made any reply when they taunted him, and more than once I sawhim perform a silent, half-secret act of kindness. Once I caught himthrowing half his dinner to a wretched little lad who had just come tothe factory, and worked near him; and once again, as I was leaving thebuilding on a rainy night, I came upon him on the stone steps at thedoor bending down with an almost pathetic clumsiness to pin the woolenshawl of a poor little mite, who, like so many others, worked with hershiftless father and mother to add to their weekly earnings. It wasalways the poorest and least cared for of the children whom he seemed tobefriend, and very often I noticed that even when he was kindest, inhis awkward man fashion, the little waifs were afraid of him, and showedtheir fear plainly. The factory was situated on the outskirts of a thriving country townnear Manchester, and at the end of the lane that led from it to the morethickly populated part there was a path crossing a field to the prettychurch and church-yard, and this path was a short cut homeward for me. Being so pretty and quiet the place had a sort of attraction for me; andI was in the habit of frequently passing through it on my way, partlybecause it was pretty and quiet, perhaps, and partly, I have no doubt, because I was inclined to be weak and melancholy at the time, my healthbeing broken down under hard study. It so happened that in passing here one night, and glancing in among thegraves and marble monuments as usual, I caught sight of a dark figuresitting upon a little mound under a tree and resting its head upon itshands, and in this sad-looking figure I recognized the muscular outlineof my friend Surly Tim. He did not see me at first, and I was almost inclined to think it bestto leave him alone; but as I half turned away he stirred with somethinglike a faint moan, and then lifted his head and saw me standing in thebright, clear moonlight. "Who's theer?" he said. "Dost ta want owt?" "It is only Doncaster, Hibblethwaite, " I returned, as I sprang over thelow stone wall to join him. "What is the matter, old fellow? I thought Iheard you groan just now. " "Yo' mought ha' done, Mester, " he answered heavily. "Happen tha did. Idunnot know mysen. Nowts th' matter though, as I knows on, on'y I'm abit out o' soarts. " He turned his head aside slightly and began to pull at the blades ofgrass on the mound, and all at once I saw that his hand was tremblingnervously. It was almost three minutes before he spoke again. "That un belongs to me, " he said suddenly at last, pointing to alonger mound at his feet. "An' this little un, " signifying with anindescribable gesture the small one upon which he sat. "Poor fellow, " I said, "I see now. " "A little lad o' mine, " he said, slowly and tremulously. "A little lado' mine an'--an' his mother. ' "What!" I exclaimed, "I never knew that you were a married man, Tim. " He dropped his head upon his hand again, still pulling nervously at thegrass with the other. "Th' law says I beant, Mester, " he answered in a painful, strainedfashion. "I conna tell mysen what God-a'-moighty 'ud say about it. " "I don't understand, " I faltered; "you don't mean to say the poor girlnever was your wife, Hibblethwaite. " "That's what th' law says, " slowly; "I thowt different mysen, an' so didth' poor lass. That's what's the matter, Mester; that's th' trouble. " The other nervous hand went up to his bent face for a minute and hid it, but I did not speak. There was so much of strange grief in his simplemovement that I felt words would be out of place. It was not my dogged, inexplicable "hand" who was sitting before me in the bright moonlighton the baby's grave; it was a man with a hidden history of some tragicsorrow long kept secret in his homely breast, --perhaps a history veryfew of us could read aright. I would not question him, though I fanciedhe meant to explain himself. I knew that if he was willing to tell methe truth it was best that he should choose his own time for it, and soI let him alone. And before I had waited very long he broke the silence himself, as I hadthought he would. "It wur welly about six year ago I comn here, " he said, "more or less, welly about six year. I wur a quiet chap then, Mester, an' had na manyfriends, but I had more than I ha' now. Happen I wur better nater'd, butjust as loike I wur loigh-ter-hearted--but that's nowt to do wi' it. "I had na been here more than a week when theer comes a young woman tomoind a loom i' th' next room to me, an' this young woman bein'pretty an' modest takes my fancy. She wur na loike th' rest o' thewenches--loud talkin' an' slattern i' her ways; she wur just quiet loikeand nowt else. First time I seed her I says to mysen, 'Theer's a lass'at's seed trouble;' an' somehow every toime I seed her afterwardI says to mysen, 'Theer's a lass 'at's seed trouble. ' It wur i'her eye--she had a soft loike brown eye, Mester--an' it wur i' hervoice--her voice wur soft loike, too--I sometimes thowt it wur plain tobe seed even i' her dress. If she'd been born a lady she'd ha' been oneo' th' foine soart, an' as she'd been born a factory-lass she wur oneo' th' foine soart still. So I took to watchin' her an' tryin' to mak'friends wi her, but I never had much luck wi' her till one neet I wasgoin' home through th' snow, and I seed her afore tighten' th' drift wi'nowt but a thin shawl over her head; so I goes up behind her an' I saysto her, steady and respecful, so as she wouldna be feart, I says:-- "'Lass, let me see thee home. It's bad weather fur thee to be out in bythysen. Tak' my coat an' wrop thee up in it, an' tak' hold o' my arm an'let me help thee along. ' "She looks up right straightforrad i' my face wi' her brown eyes, an' Itell yo' Mester, I wur glad I wur a honest man 'stead o' a rascal, furthem quiet eyes 'ud ha' fun me out afore I'd ha' done sayin' my say ifI'd meant harm. "'Thank yo' kindly Mester Hibblethwaite, ' she says, 'but dunnot tak' offtha' coat fur me; I'm doin' pretty nicely. It is Mester Hibblethwaite, beant it?' "'Aye, lass, ' I answers, 'it's him. Mought I ax yo're name. ' "'Aye, to be sure, ' said she. 'My name's Rosanna--'Sanna Brent th' folkat th' mill alius ca's me. I work at th' loom i' th' next room to thine. I've seed thee often an' often. ' "So we walks home to her lodgins, an' on the way we talks togetherfriendly an' quiet loike, an th' more we talks th' more I sees she'shad trouble an' by an' by--bein' on'y common workin' folk, we'restraightforrad to each other in our plain way--it comes out what hertrouble has been. "'Yo' p'raps wouldn't think I've been a married woman, Mester, ' shesays; 'but I ha', an' I wedded an' rued. I married a sojer when I wur agiddy young wench, four years ago, an' it wur th' worst thing as ever Idid i' aw my days. He wur one o' yo're handsome, fastish chaps, an' hetired o' me as men o' his stripe alius do tire o' poor lasses, an' thenhe ill-treated me. He went to th' Crimea after we'n been wed a year, an' left me to shift fur mysen. An' I heard six month after he wur dead. He'd never writ back to me nor sent me no help, but I couldna think hewur dead till th' letter comn. He wur killed th' first month he wur outfightin' th' Rooshians. Poor fellow! Poor Phil! Th' Lord ha' mercy onhim!' "That wur how I found out about her trouble, an' somehow it seemed todraw me to her, an' mak' me feel kindly to'ards her; 'twur so pitiful tohear her talk about th' rascal, so sorrowful an' gentle, an' not gi' hima real hard word for a' he'd done. But that's alius th' way wi' womenfolk--th' more yo' harry's them, th' more they'll pity yo' an' pray foryo'. Why she wurna more than twenty-two then, an' she must ha' been nowtbut a slip o' a lass when they wur wed. "Hows'ever, Rosanna Brent an' me got to be good friends, an' we walkedhome together o' nights, an talked about our bits o' wage, an' our bitso' debt, an' th' way that wench 'ud keep me up i' spirits when I wura bit down-hearted about owt, wur just a wonder. She wur so quiet an'steady, an' when she said owt she meant it, an' she never said too muchor too little. Her brown eyes alius minded me o' my mother, though th'old woman deed when I were nobbut a little chap, but I never seed 'SannaBrent smile th'out thinkin' o' how my mother looked when I wur kneelin'down sayin' my prayers after her. An' bein' as th' lass wur so dear tome, I made up my mind to ax her to be summat dearer. So once goin' homealong wi' her, I takes hold o' her hand an' lifts it up an' kisses itgentle--as gentle an' wi' summat th' same feelin' as I'd kiss th' GoodBook. "''Sanna, ' I says, 'bein' as yo've had so much trouble wi' yo're firstchance, would yo' be afeard to try a second? Could yo' trust a monagain? Such a mon as me, 'Sanna?' "'I wouldna be feart to trust thee, Tim, ' she answers back soft an'gentle after a manner. 'I wouldna be feart to trust thee any time. ' "I kisses her hand again, gentler still. "'God bless thee, lass, ' I says. 'Does that mean yes?' "She crept up closer to me i' her sweet, quiet way. "'Aye, lad, ' she answers. 'It means yes, an' I'll bide by it. ' "'An' tha shalt never rue it, lass, ' said I 'Tha's gi'en thy life to me, an' I'll gi' mine to thee, sure and true. ' "So we wur axed i' th' church th' next Sunday, an' a month fro then wewur wed, an' if ever God's sun shone on a happy mon, it shone on onethat day, when we come out o' church together--me and Rosanna--an'went to our bit o' a home to begin life again. I coujdna tell thee, Mester--theer beant no words to tell how happy an' peaceful we lived furtwo year after that. My lass never altered her sweet ways, an' Ijust loved her to make up to her fur what had gone by. I thankedGod-a'-moighty fur his blessing every day, and every day I prayed tobe made worthy of it. An' here's just wheer I'd like to ax a question, Mester, about sum m at 'ats worretted me a good deal. I dunnot want toquestion th' Maker, but I would loike to know how it is 'at sometimeit seems 'at we're clean forgot--as if He couldna fash hissen aboutour troubles, an' most loike left 'em to work out their-sens. Yo' see, Mester, an' we aw see sometime He thinks on us an' gi's us a lift, but hasna tha thysen seen times when tha stopt short an' axed thysen, 'Wheer's God-a'-moighty 'at he isna straighten things out a bit? Th'world's i' a power o' a snarl. Th' righteous is forsaken, 'n his seed'sbeggin' bread. An' th' devil's topmost agen. ' I've talked to my lassabout it sometimes, an' I dunnot think I meant harm, Mester, for I felthumble enough--an' when I talked, my lass she'd listen an' smile softan' sorrowful, but she never gi' me but one answer. "'Tim, ' she'd say, 'this is on'y th' skoo' an we're th' scholars, an'He's teachin' us his way We munnot be loike th' children o' Israel i'th' Wilderness, an' turn away fro' th' cross 'cause o' th' Sarpent. Wemunnot say, "Theer's a snake:" we mun say, "Theer's th' Cross, an' th'Lord gi' it to us. " Th' teacher wouldna be o' much use, Tim, if th'scholars knew as much as he did, an' I allus think it's th' best tocomfort mysen wi' sayin', "Th' Lord-a'-moighty, He knows. "' "An' she alius comforted me too when I wur worretted. Life looked smoothsomewhow them three year. Happen th' Lord sent 'em to me to make up furwhat wur comin'. "At th' eend o' th' first year th' child wur born, th' little lad here, "touching the turf with his hand, "'Wee Wattie' his mother ca'd him, an' he wur a fine, lightsome little chap. He filled th' whole house wi'music day in an' day out, crowin' an' crowin'--an' cryin' too sometime. But if ever yo're a feyther, Mester, yo'll find out 'at a baby's cry'smusic often enough, an' yo'll find, too, if yo' ever lose one, 'at yo'dgive all yo'd getten just to hear even th' worst o' cryin'. Rosanna shecouldna find i' her heart to set th' little un out o' her arms a minnit, an' she'd go about th' room wi' her eyes aw leeted up, an' her facebloomin' like a slip o' a girl's, an' if she laid him i' th' cradleher head 'ud be turnt o'er har shoulder aw th' time lookin' at him an'singin' bits o' sweet-soundin' foolish woman-folks' songs. I thowt then'at them old nursery songs wur th' happiest music I ever heard, an' when'Sanna sung 'em they minded me o' hymn-tunes. "Well, Mester, before th' spring wur out Wee Wat was toddlin' roundholdin' to his mother's gown, an' by th' middle o' th' next he wascooin' like a dove, an' prattlin' words i' a voice like hers. His eyeswur big an' brown an' straightforrad like hers, an' his mouth was likehers, an' his curls wur the color o' a brown bee's back. Happen we settoo much store by him, or happen it wur on'y th' Teacher again teachin'us his way, but hows'ever that wur, I came home one sunny mornin' fro'th' factory, an' my dear lass met me at th' door, all white an' cold, but tryin' hard to be brave an' help me to bear what she had to tell. "'Tim, ' said she, 'th' Lord ha' sent us a trouble; but we can bear ittogether, conna we, dear lad?' "That wur aw, but I knew what it meant, though th' poor little lamb hadbeen well enough when I kissed him last. "I went in an' saw him lyin' theer on his pillows strugglin' an' gaspin'in hard convulsions, an' I seed aw was over. An' in half an hour, justas th' sun crept across th' room an' touched his curls th' pretty littlechap opens his eyes aw at once. "'Daddy!' he crows out. 'Sithee Dad--! an' he lift' hissen up, catchesat th' floatin' sun shine, laughs at it, and fa's back--dead, Mester. "I've allus thowt 'at th' Lord-a'-moighty knew what He wur doin' when hegi' th' woman t' Adam i' th' Garden o' Eden. He knowed he wur nowt buta poor chap as couldna do fur hissen; an' I suppose that's th' reason hegi' th' woman th' strength to bear trouble when it comn. I'd ha' gi'enclean in if it hadna been fur my lass when th' little chap deed. I nevertackledt owt i' aw my days 'at hurt me as heavy as losin' him did. Icouldna abear th' sight o' his cradle, an' if ever I comn across any o'his bits o' playthings, I'd fa' to cryin' an' shakin' like a babby. Ikept out o' th' way o' th' neebors' children even. I wasna like Rosanna. I couldna see quoite clear what th' Lord meant, an' I couldna helpmurmuring sad and heavy. That's just loike us men, Mester; just as ifth' dear wench as had give him her life fur food day an' neet, hadna furth' best reet o' th' two to be weak an' heavy-hearted. "But I getten welly over it at last, an' we was beginnin' to come rounda bit an' look forrard to th' toime we'd see him agen 'stead o' luokin'back to th' toime we shut th' round bit of a face under th' coffin-lid. Th' day comn when we could bear to talk about him an' moind things he'dsaid an' tried to say i' his broken babby way. An' so we wur creepin'back again to th' old happy quiet, an' we had been for welly six month, when summat fresh come. I'll never forget it, Mester, th' neet ithappened. I'd kissed Rosanna at th' door an' left her standin' theerwhen I went up to th' village to buy summat she wanted. It wur a brightmoon light neet, just such a neet as this, an' th' lass had followed meout to see th' moonshine, it wur so bright an' clear; an' just beforeI starts she folds both her hands on my shoulder an' says, soft an'thoughtful:-- "'Tim, I wonder if th' little chap sees us?' "'I'd loike to know, dear lass, ' I answers back. An' then she speaksagain:-- "'Tim, I wonder if he'd know he was ours if he could see, or if he'd ha'forgot? He wur such a little fellow. ' "Them wur th' last peaceful words I ever heerd her speak. I went up toth' village an' getten what she sent me fur, an' then I comn back. Th'moon wur shinin' as bright as ever, an' th' flowers i' her slip o' agarden wur aw sparklin' wi' dew. I seed 'em as I went up th' walk, an' Ithowt again of what she'd said bout th' little lad. "She wasna outside, an' I couldna see a leet about th' house, but Iheerd 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--amon i' red sojer clothes. "My heart leaped into my throat, an' fur a min nit I hadna a word, furI saw summat wui up, though I couldna tell what it wur. But at last myvoice come back. "'Good evenin', Mester, ' I says to him; 'I hope yo' ha'not broughtenill-news? What ails thee, dear lass?' "She stirs a little, an' gives a moan like a dyin' child; and then shelifts up her wan, brokenhearted face, an' stretches out both her handsto me. "'Tim, ' she says, 'dunnot hate me, lad, dunnot. I thowt he wur dead longsin'. I thowt 'at th' Rooshans killed him an' I wur free, but I amna. Inever wur. He never deed, Tim, an' theer he is--the mon as I wur wed toan' left by. God forgi' him, an' oh, God forgi' me!' "Theer, Mester, theer's a story fur thee. What dost ta' think o't?My poor lass wasna my wife at aw--th' little chap's mother wasna hisfeyther's wife, an' never had been. That theer worthless fellow as beatan' starved her an' left her to fight th' world alone, had comn backalive an' well, ready to begin agen. He could tak' her away fro' me anyhour i' th' day, and I couldna say a word to bar him. Th' law said mywife--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. "Theer's no use o' goin' o'er aw we said to each other i' that darkroom theer. I raved an' prayed an' pled wi' th' lass to let me carry heracross th' seas, wheer I'd heerd tell theer was help fur such loike; butshe pled back i' her broken, patient way that it wouldna be reet, an'happen it wur the Lord's will. She didna say much to th' sojer. I scarceheerd her speak to him more than once, when she axed him to let her goaway by hersen. "'Tha conna want me now, Phil, ' she said. 'Tha conna care fur me. Thamust know I'm more this mon's wife than thine. But I dunnot ax thee togi' me to him because I know that wouldna be reet; I on'y ax thee to letme 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'dha' 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 foaktheer might ha' been some help fur her, at least; th' law might ha' beenbrowt to mak' him leave her be, but bein' poor workin' foak theer wuron'y one thing: th' wife mun go wi' th' husband, an' theer th' husbandstood--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 toforget 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 gotogether to th' little lad's grave--fur th' last time. ' She didna speakto him but ti me, an' she spoke still an' strained as if she wui tooheart-broke to be wild. Her face was as white as th' dead, but she didnacry, as ony other woman would ha' done. 'Come, Tim, ' she said, 'he connasay no to that. ' "An' so out we went 'thout another word, an' left th' black-heartedrascal behind, sittin' i' th' very room th' little un deed in. Hiscradle stood theer i' th' corner. We went out into th' moonlight 'thoutspeakin', 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? Canstna 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. Icouldna comfort her, for wheer wur there any comfort for us? Theer wurnone left--theer wur no hope. We was shamed an' broke down--our liveswas lost. Th' past wur nowt--th' future wur worse. Oh, my poor lass, howhard she tried to pray--fur me, Mester--yes, fur me, as she lay theerwi' her arms round her dead babby's grave, an' her cheek on th' grass asgrew o'er his breast. 'Lord God-a'-moighty, she says, 'help us--dunnotgi' us up--dunnot, dunnot. We conna do 'thowt thee now, if th' time everwur 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 couldspare 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. ' "Well, Mester, she lay theer on th' grass pray in' an crying wild butgentle, fur nigh haaf an hour, an' then it seemed 'at she got quoiteloike, 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 awwhite an' shinin' i' th' clear moonlight. "'Sit down by me, dear lad, ' she said, 'an' hold my hand a minnit. ' Iset down an' took hold of her hand, as she bid me. "'Tim, ' she said, 'this wur why th' little chap deed. Dost na tha seenow '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 totalk to thee. Wilta listen?' "'Yes, wife, ' I says, an' I heerd her sob when I said it, but shecatches hersen up again. "'I want thee to mak' me a promise, ' said she. 'I want thee to promisenever 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 shaltpray fur me, an' happen theer'll come a leet. But if theer dunnot, dearlad--an' I dunnot see how theer could--if theer dunnot, an' we never seeeach 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 dearface on my breast an' kissed me, as she had done every neet sin' we weremon an' wife. "'Good-bye, dear lad, ' she whispers--her voice aw broken. 'Doant comeback to th' house till I'm gone. Good-bye, dear, dear, lad, an' Godbless thee. ' An' she slipped out o' my arms an' wur gone in a momentawmost before I could cry out. "Theer isna much more to tell, Mester--th' eend's comin' now, an' happenit'll shorten off th' story, so 'at it seems suddent to thee. But itwere-na suddent to me. I lived alone here, an' worked, an' moinded myown business, an' answered no questions fur nigh about a year, hearin'nowt, an' seein' nowt, an' hopin' nowt, till one toime when th' daisieswere 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 shortletter 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 tosend fur me, an' one o' th' young softhearted ones had writ me a line tolet me know. "I started aw'most afore I'd finished readin' th' letter, an' when Igetten to th' place I fun just what I knowed I should. I fun her--mywife--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 flewwide open aw at onct, an' she seed me an' smiled, aw her dear facequiverin' i' death. "'Dear lad, ' she whispered, 'th' path was na so long after aw. Th' Lordknew--He trod it hissen' onct, yo' know. I knowed tha'd come--I prayedso. I've reached th' very eend now, Tim, an' I shall see th' little ladfirst. But I wunnot forget my promise--no. I'll look out--fur thee--furthee--at th' gate. ' "An' her eyes shut slow an' quiet, an' I knowed she was dead. "Theer, Mester Doncaster, theer it aw is, fur 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 heragain, I fun out--an' she wur so afeard of doin' me some harm that shewouldna come nigh me. It wur heart disease as killed her, th' medicalchaps said, but I knowed better--it wur heart-break. That's aw. Sometimes I think o'er it till I conna stand it any longer, an' I'm fainto come here an' lay my hand on th' grass, --an' sometimes I ha' queerdreams about her. I had one last neet. I thowt 'at she comn to me aw atonct just as she used to look, on'y, wi' her white face shinin' loikea star, an' she says, 'Tim, th' path isna so long after aw--tha's comenigh to th' eend, an' me an' th' little chap is waitin'. He knows thee, dear lad, fur I've towt him. ' "That's why I comn here to-neet, Mester; an' I believe that's why I'vetalked 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, buta heavy heart. " He stopped here, and his head drooped upon his hands again, and for aminute or so there was another dead silence. Such a story as this neededno comment. I could make none. It seemed to me that the poor fellow'ssore heart could bear none. At length he rose from the turf and stoodup, looking out over the graves into the soft light beyond with astrange, wistful sadness. "Well, I mun go now, " he said slowly. "Good-neet, Mester, good-neet, an'thank yo' fur listenin'. " "Good night, " I returned, adding, in an impulse of pity that was almosta passion, "and God help you!" "Thank yo' again, Mester!" he said, and then turned away; and as I satpondering I watched his heavy drooping figure threading its way amongthe dark mounds and white marble, and under the shadowy trees, and outinto the path beyond. I did not sleep well that night. The strained, heavy tones of the man's voice were in my ears, and the homely yettragic story seemed to weave itself into all my thoughts, and keep mefrom rest. I could not get it out of my mind. In consequence of this sleeplessness I was later than usual in goingdown to the factory, and when I arrived at the gates I found anunusual bustle there. Something out of the ordinary routine had plainlyoccurred, for the whole place was in confusion. There was a crowd ofhands grouped about one corner of the yard, and as I came in a man ranagainst me, and showed me a terribly pale face. "I ax pardon, Mester Doncaster, " he said in a wild hurry, "but theer'san accident happened. One o' th' weavers is hurt bad, an' I'm goin' furth' doctor. Th' loom caught an' crushed him afore we could stop it. " For some reason or other my heart misgave me that very moment. I pushedforward to the group in the yard corner, and made my way through it. A man was lying on a pile of coats in the middle of the by-standers, --apoor fellow crushed and torn and bruised, but lying quite quiet now, only for an occasional little moan, that was scarcely more than a quickgasp for breath. It was Surly Tim! "He's nigh th' eend o' it now!" said one of the hands pityingly. "He'snigh th' last now, poor chap! What's that he's savin', lads?" For all at once some flickering sense seemed to have caught at one ofthe speaker's words, and the wounded man stirred, murmuring faintly--butnot to the watchers. Ah, no! to something far, far beyond their feeblehuman sight--to something in the broad Without. "Th' eend!" he said, "aye, this is th' eend, dear lass, an' th' path'saw shinin' or summat an--Why, lass, I can see thee plain, an' th' littlechap too!" Another flutter of the breath, one slight movement of the mangled hand, and I bent down closer to the poor fellow--closer, because my eyes wereso dimmed that I could not see. "Lads, " I said aloud a few seconds later, "you can do no more for him. His pain is over!" For with a sudden glow of light which shone upon the shortened path andthe waiting figures of his child and its mother, Surly Tim's earthlytrouble had ended.