ded away I sat misen down i' the ingle-nook and mended the stockings.
And there was Owd Jerry set on the lang-settle anent me. There was no
sign on his face of a deeing man, but ivery minute the load on my mind
grew heavier. Eh, man, but it were a queer game the deevil played wi' me
that day, a queer, mocking game that I'll niver forget so lang as
there's breath left i' my body. Leastways that's what I thought at the
time, but I've learnt by now that it weren't the deevil; it was the
Almighty punishin' me for eatin' o' the Tree o' Knowledge.

"Fower o'clock came, and I got tea ready. The childer came back frae
school, and then Mike came, and the first thing he axed was if Amos had
gotten back wi' the stirks. So I said: 'No, he's noan gotten back yet
awhile.' My mind were so taen up wi' Owd Jerry and the ash-riddling that
I'd forgotten that Amos was away on the other side o' Wharfe. So Mike
for all he was weet to the skin, set off to look for Amos. I gave Owd
Jerry and the childer their tea, but I wouldn't sit down wi' 'em misen,
but kept going to the windey to see if Mike and Amos were coming wi' the
stirks. I looked out, happen six or seven times, and there was nobody on
the road; but at last I set een on Mike and other lads frae the farms
round about. They were carrying somebody on a hurdle."

For a moment Grannie interrupted her story to wipe away the tears that
were now rolling down her cheeks. In a flash I realised what was to be
the tragic close of her tale, and I tried to spare her the details. But
she refused to be spared, and, forcing back the tears, went on to the
bitter end.

"Aye, aye, thou'll happen have guessed who was on the hurdle. It was
Amos; he'd lossen his footing on the stepping-stones going across
Wharfe, and the spate had carried him downstream and drowned him. It
wasn't Jerry's clog-print on the ashes, it was Amos's; and the Lord had
taen away my eldest barn frae me because I'd etten o' the Tree o'
Knowledge."

II. Janet's Cove

Grannie's reputation as a story-teller was readily acknowledged by the
children of our village. When they had trudged back from school which
was held in a village two miles away, tea was always ready for them. But
tea in their own kitchens was accounted a dull repast. If the weather
was fine they carried their "shives" of bread and dripping, or bread and
treacle, into the road in front of their houses and ate them in the
intervals between "Here come three dukes a