t'
devil's children?" says he. "For the Scriptur' says he's t' father
o' lies." So a were puzzled-like; an' at length a says, "Thou mun
ask t' parson that; a'm but a poor faint-hearted widow-woman; but
a've allays had God's blessing somehow, now a bethink me, an' a'll
share it wi' thee as far as my will goes." So he raxes his hand
across t' table, an' mutters summat, as he grips mine. A thought it
were Scriptur' as he said, but a'd needed a' my strength just then
for t' lift t' pot off t' fire--it were t' first vittle a'd tasted
sin' morn, for t' famine comes down like stones on t' head o' us
poor folk: an' a' a said were just "Coom along, chap, an' fa' to;
an' God's blessing be on him as eats most." An' sin' that day him
and me's been as thick as thieves, only he's niver telled me nought
of who he is, or wheere he comes fra'. But a think he's one o' them
poor colliers, as has getten brunt i' t' coal-pits; for, t' be sure,
his face is a' black wi' fire-marks; an' o' late days he's ta'en t'
his bed, an' just lies there sighing,--for one can hear him plain as
dayleet thro' t' bit partition wa'.'

As a proof of this, a sigh--almost a groan--startled the two women
at this very moment.

'Poor fellow!' said Sylvia, in a soft whisper. 'There's more sore
hearts i' t' world than one reckons for!' But after a while, she
bethought her again of Kester's account of his sister's 'softness';
and she thought that it behoved her to give some good advice. So she
added, in a sterner, harder tone--'Still, yo' say yo' know nought
about him; and tramps is tramps a' t' world over; and yo're a widow,
and it behoves yo' to be careful. I think I'd just send him off as
soon as he's a bit rested. Yo' say he's plenty o' money?'

'Nay! A never said that. A know nought about it. He pays me
aforehand; an' he pays me down for whativer a've getten for him; but
that's but little; he's noane up t' his vittle, though a've made him
some broth as good as a could make 'em.'

'I wouldn't send him away till he was well again, if I were yo; but
I think yo'd be better rid on him,' said Sylvia. 'It would be
different if yo'r brother were in Monkshaven.' As she spoke she rose
to go.

Widow Dobson held her hand in hers for a minute, then the humble
woman said,--

'Yo'll noane be vexed wi' me, missus, if a cannot find i' my heart
t' turn him out till he wants to go hissel'? For a wouldn't like to
vex yo', for Christopher's sake; but a know what it is for t'