"I mean William Bamforth, who has a son called Ben." "Well, he's noan at wom. He's i' Macclesfield. But aw munnot stop talkin' here. Aw'm churnin', an' th' butter's just on th' turn. Aw'll tell him a felly come to see him." "Not so fast, my good woman." "I'll trouble yo' to keep a civil tongue in yo'r head. My name's Martha. Don't 'Good woman' me, if yo' please." "Where's yo'r mistress?" "'Oo's i' bed. 'Oo's ill. 'Oo's getten th' small pox, an' tha'd better be off afore th' smell on it comes dahn stairs an' smittles thee." "I'm sorry to seem rude, my sweet Martha. But duty's duty. I must search yo'r house." "If tha comes in aw'll set th' dog at thee. Here Vixen, Vixen." And Martha called to an imaginary bitch. There was a slight scuffle, and someone strode into the house. "No one here anyhow. Now for upstairs." My mother had fled to her bed and drawn the clothes about her. For me, I lay back in my chair incapable of thought or movement. The stairs creaked under a heavy tread. Mary stood by my side, my hand stole into hers, and she faced the door, battle in her eyes. A big, burly trooper pushed it open, ducking his head as he advanced over the threshold. It was Long Tom with whom I had fought at Marsden. "What want you here?" cried Mary. "How dare you force your way into decent folks' house in broad day?" "The gamesome wench that slapped my face!" cried Long Tom. "Aye, and will slap it again if yo'r not off." "Gently, Mary, gently," I said. "The sergeant has doubtless business here. Your errand, sir?" I said. "You see you intrude." "Why this beats Banagher, where the cows run barefoot!" exclaimed the soldier. "If this isn't the youngster spoiled my beauty for me. Nay, sit still," he went on, as I tried to rise. "What! bandaged, too, and in the forearm. A queer treatment for small pox." "Sir, if you have business here, I pray you do it." "Is your name Ben Bamforth?" "It is." "The son of William Bamforth?" "His son." "And what the devil are yo' doing here, you thundering young idiot? Why in the name of common sense aren't you a thousand miles away if horse or mail could carry you?" "And what the devil are yo' doing here, you thundering young idiot? Why in the name of common sense aren't you a thousand miles away if horse or mail could carry you?" "I am not accountable to you for my actions that I know of. Again, your business?" My mother had issued from her room in petticoat and scarlet jacket. "Keep your distance, good woman, if its yo' have the small pox. If I must be riddled let it be with pellets not pustules," cried the soldier, starting back in horror. "Oh! good Mr. Soldier. What do yo' want with our Ben? A quiet, harmless lad, as ever lived, that never harmed a flee. I'm sure he's done nothing wrong, and him bedfast these six months past." Now heaven forgive you, mother!