g, like a stung horse,
under the spur of love.

'But I have two lives to think of,' replied Dr. Hale, 'both
mother's and son's.'

'Mine's naught, doctor, when he's i' danger. Who bothers their
yeds abaat theirsels when them as they care more for are i' need?
Let's hurry up, doctor.'

And again she sprang forward, to struggle with renewed effort
through the yielding snow. Then, turning towards her companion,
she cried:

'Where wur he hurt, doctor? Did they tell yo'?'

But the doctor was silent.

Seizing his arm with eager grip, she continued:

'Dun yo' think he's livin', doctor? Or is he deead? Did they say
he wur deead?'

'We must be patient a little longer,' was the doctor's kind reply.
'See! there's the light in the window of Granny Houses!'

And there shone the light--distant across the fields, and blurred
and indistinct through the falling snow. Without waiting to find
the path, the mother ran in a direct line towards it, scaling the
walls with the nimbleness of youth, to fall exhausted on the
threshold of the farmstead.

Raising herself, she looked round with a blank stare, dazed with
the glow of the fire and the light of the lamp. In the further
corners of the room, and away from each other, sat the old woman
and Mr. Penrose and Malachi o' the Mount, while on the settle
beneath the window lay the sheeted dead.

'Where's th' lad?' cried the mother, the torture of a great fear
racking her features and agonizing her voice.

There was no reply, the three watchers by the dead helplessly and
mutely gazing at the snow-covered figure that stood beneath the
open doorway within a yard of her child.

'Gronny, doesto yer? Where's my lad? And yo', Malachi--yo' took
him daan th' shaft wi' yo'; what ban yo' done wi' him?'

Still there was no response. A paralysis silenced each lip. None
of the three possessed a heart that dared disclose the secret.

Seeing the sheeted covering on the settle, the woman, with frantic
gesture, tore it aside, and when her eye fell on the little face,
grand in death's calm, a great rigor took hold of her, and then
she became rigid as the dead on whom her gaze was fixed.

In a little while she stooped over the boy, and, baring the cold
body, looked long at the crushed and discoloured parts, at last
bending low her face and kissing them until they were warm with
her caress. Then old granny, turning round to Mr. Penrose,
whispered:

'Thank God, hoo's weepin'!'

'Let her weep,'