ing in with an armful of sticks to make a blaze,
"you'll want your supper."

The reply was a blow which doubled her up in a corner senseless.

Absalom sat for a while sullenly glowering over the embers, and then
went to bed, leaving Madge sobbing on the bare, hard earthen floor. It
was midnight before she crept to his side.

Early in the morning Absalom got up and dressed. Madge was sleeping
soundly, a dark circle under each eye; she had cried herself to sleep.
He went out and left her.

CHAPTER III.

Six weeks passed, and Absalom did not return. Madge went over to her
mother. "He bean't come," she said, beginning to cry.

"I knowed a wassn't," said the old woman, rocking herself to and fro in
her low rush-bottomed chair, with her feet on the hearth, almost among
the ashes. "Thee's soon have to look out for theeself."

"How, mother?"

"Cos I'm going to die."

"Mother!"

"I be goin' to die," repeated the old woman in the same calm, hard tone.
A life of incessant labour had crushed all sentiment out of her--except
superstition--and she faced the hard facts of existence without emotion.

Madge began to weep.

"Thee go and shut up the cottage, wench, and come and bide wi' I."

Madge did so. In a few days the old woman took to her bed. She had it
dragged out of the next room--there was but one floor--and placed near
the fire, which was constantly kept up. Madge waited on her assiduously
when she was not out of doors at field-work. Work was growing scarcer
and scarcer as the winter advanced. The old woman slowly grew weaker and
weaker, till Madge could leave her no longer. So she stayed at home, and
so lost the little employment she had. One evening, when the firelight
was growing low and dark shadows were flickering over the ceiling, the
old woman seemed to recover a little strength, and sat up in bed.

"Madge!"

"Yes, mother."

"Thee must promise I one thing."

"What be it, mother?"

"As thee won't have I buried by the parish."

Madge began to cry.

"Dost thee hear?"

"I won't."

A long silence.

"Madge!"

"Yes, mother."

"Thee go to the fire. Dost thee see that brick in the chimbley as sticks
out a little way?"

"Yes."

"Pull it out."

Madge caught hold, and after a few tugs pulled the brick out.

"Put thee hand in!"

Madge thrust hand and arm into the cavity, and brought out a dirty
stocking.

"Has thee got th' stocking?"

"Yes, mother."

"Bury I wi' wots in thur, a