ha' liked
it to be so. But I mun be off to bed, childer, it's gettin' lat'.
I shall sleep in th' owd chamber to-neet, wheresomever I sleep
to-morn.'

And so saying, the grandmother took her lamp, and climbed the worn
stone staircase to her room--a staircase trodden so many times in
changing moods of joy and sorrow, and with feet now gladsome and
now weary with honest toil and household care.

When Jimmy and his wife were alone, and the sound of the old
woman's voice no longer fell upon their ears, they realized, as
never before, the anguish of their surroundings. They were
spending their last night in what to one had been a life-long
home, and to the other a shelter of happiness for ten years of
married life. The story was a sad one, and yet, alas! not
uncommon. Crawshaw Fold--the old farmstead--dated back two hundred
years, and from the time of its erection to the present, had known
neither owners nor occupiers save those of the sturdy yeoman
family from which it took its name. It had been the boast of the
Crawshaws that no alien ever lorded it beneath their roof, or sat
as presiding genius at their hearth. They were proud to tell how
all the heirs of Crawshaw Fold only entered its portals by the
mystic gate of birth, nor departed until summoned by the passing
bell. But families, like individuals, grow old, and with the
course of years the richest blood runs thin. Bad seasons, which
are the friends of the money-lender and mortgagee, are the foes of
hereditary descent and family pride, and many are the escutcheons
erased and the lines of lineage broken by reverses wrought through
their fitful moods. The Crawshaws were no exception. A succession
of disasters on their little farmstead brought them to sore
straits, and for deliverance they sought help of one Moses
Fletcher, who advanced money on the deeds of the property. So bad
were the times that James Crawshaw was unable to meet the
interest, and on the morrow Moses was putting in force his claim.
This was the shadow that fell across the hearth--the despair that
was seated like a hideous ghoul by their fireside. In the morning
three generations of Crawshaw would be homeless.

'Well, lad,' said Jimmy's wife, 'it's no use lying daan to dee
afore one's time; there's this little un to fend for, and, as I
say, th' wick is o' more value than th' deeing. Th' owd Book says
as th' deead is to bury th' deead, but I'm noan deead yet.'

'Thaa'rt hard on th' owd woman, l