tance, was somewhat taken aback one day by
the reply of a poor man with whom he had been condoling over the death
of an only son.

"I tell ye," sobbed the inconsolable parent, "if it hadn't bin for
what neighbours 'ud say, I'd ha' had th' little divil stuffed."

There is no rule without its exception, and, though our people are for
the most part affectionate and tender-hearted in their own rugged way,
I am bound to own there are some Stoics in our midst.

One old woman, in particular, whom I have known to be afflicted in a
variety of ways, has never betrayed the least sign of emotion; whether
she is incapable of it, or whether she heroically conceals it, I have
been unable to discover.

She lost two sons in rapid succession after a few hours' illness.

"What did they die of?" asked some one sympathetically.

As a rule such a remark would have led to a flood of tearful and
affectionate reminiscences, but this old lady was laconic.

"One deed of a Tuesday, and one of a Thursday," she replied.

The third son a short time afterwards, returning home from market
slightly hazy in his ideas, was run over by an express train as he
endeavoured to cross the line.

Next morning the body was found, horribly mutilated, and a porter was
despatched to break the tidings to the bereaved mother. The man,
overcome with the horror of the event, and full of compassion for the
white-haired woman--who stood stolidly awaiting his message, evidently
unsuspicious of its tenor--could scarcely find words with which to
tell the news.

"There's bin an accident," he faltered, "we'n foun' a mon o' th'
rails--dead--cut t' pieces by a train."

Old Lizzie stared at him in silence; then a light seemed to break in
on her.

"Ah," she said. "Happen it's our Bill!"

And with that she turned on her heel and went upstairs to select a
winding-sheet for him.

Some of our folks like to talk about their troubles. Over and over
again they tell you, almost in the same words, exactly how it all came
about. A poor woman pleats her apron and gazes at you with pathetic
eyes, which she stops to wipe occasionally. The story has grown
familiar to both relater and listener, and sometimes you are regaled
not only with the tale itself, but with the repetition of your own
comments thereon.

"I mind ye said so and so," she says, "an' it's often seemed to
comfort me."

Clearly there is nothing for it but immediately to say it again, and
you are rewarded by se