a fork. And then we were silent for a minute or so.

"I'll tell yo what," said Nanny, "some folk's o'th luck i'th world."

"What's up now, Nanny?" replied I.

"They say'n that Owd Bill, at Fo' Edge, has had a dowter wed, an' a
cow cauve't, an a mare foal't o' i' one day. Dun yo co' that nought?"

Before I could reply, the sound of approaching footsteps came upon our
ears. Then, they stopt, a few yards off; and a clear voice trolled out a
snatch of country song:--

"Owd shoon an' stockins,
An' slippers at's made o' red leather!
Come, Betty, wi' me,
Let's shap to agree,
An' hutch of a cowd neet together.

"Mash-tubs and barrels!
A mon connot olez be sober;
A mon connot sing
To a bonnier thing
Nor a pitcher o' stingin' October."

"Jenny, my lass," said the old woman, "see who it is. It's oather
'Skedlock' or 'Nathan o' Dangler's.'"

Jenny peeped through the window, an' said, "It's Skedlock. He's
lookin' at th' turmits i'th garden. Little Joseph's wi' him. They're
comin' in. Joseph's new clogs on."

Skedlock came shouldering slowly forward into the cottage,--a tall,
strong, bright-eyed man, of fifty. His long, massive features were
embrowned by habitual exposure to the weather, and he wore the
mud-stained fustian dress of a quarryman. He was followed by a healthy
lad, about twelve years of age,--a kind of pocket-copy of himself. They
were as like one another as a new shilling and an old crown-piece. The
lad's dress was of the same kind as his father's, and he seemed to have
studiously acquired the same cart-horse gait, as if his limbs were as
big and as stark as his father's.

"Well, Skedlock," said Nanny, "thae's getten Joseph witho, I see. Does
he go to schoo yet ?"

"Nay; he reckons to worch i'th delph wi' me, neaw."

"Nay, sure. Does he get ony wage?"

"Nawe," replied Skedlock; "he's drawn his wage wi' his teeth, so fur.
But he's larnin', yo' known--he's larnin'. Where's yo'r Jone? I want to
see him abeawt some plants."

"Well," said Nanny, "sit tho down a minute. Hasto no news? Thae'rt
seldom short of a crack o' some mak."

"Nay," said Skedlock, scratching his rusty pate, "aw don't know 'at
aw've aught fresh." But when he had looked thoughtfully into the fire
for a minute or so, his brown face lighted up with a smile, and drawing
a chair up, he said, "Howd, Nanny; han yo yerd what a do they had at th'
owd chapel, yesterday?"

"Nawe."

"Eh, dear!... Well, yo