"Tho'," she added, "if it wer' to be a young 'un, it couldn't ha' been a better nor Faith, an' that aw will say; but as for wives being obedient to their husbands"--for I had taken, occasion to enlighten her as to Jack's views on the blessed estate--"it's well known St. Paul, good man, was a bachelor, an' bachelors' wives is same as owd maids' childer, like nowt in heaven above, nor the earth beneath--nor in the water under the earth," she added, to complete the text. It was about this time that Mary had an unexpected visitor. It would be in July, as near as I can remember. I was piking in the barn, and there being a good yield that year, it needed all my height and a long pike to reach to the top of the hay bowk when it neared the roof. Mary and Faith were raking in the field, and Martha had been with the last bottle of home-brewed for the hay-makers. We had always three or four Irishmen that came regularly year after year to earn their rent at the English harvesting. One of them, Micky, taught me to count up to twenty in Irish, so that I may claim to know a little of foreign languages, and if they are all like Irish, I pity the man that has to learn more of them. I had gone to the barn door, looking placidly across the field where Bob stood in the traces yoked to the hurdle on which we dragged the sweet new hay to the mistal; the sun was westering, and the grateful breezes fanned me with cool and gentle touch. The girls in the field had thrown off the large straw hats they wore in the noon heat, their tresses had escaped their coils, and they moved but slowly with the rakes, following the wake of the hurdle, for we had had a long and hard day, and all were fain our work was nigh done, and the hay, thank God, well won. My mother had gone into the house, for she had long ceased to take any part in the hay-making, and I made no question she was getting ready the baggin'. I saw her come to the house door, and heard her shout: "Mary! Ben! come hither; aw want yo;" and she waved her arms to motion us in. "Throw yo'r rakes dahn, an' come naa," came another cry, and there was that in my mother's voice which told us this was no ordinary summons to a meal. Mary and I made for the house hot-foot. My mother met us at the door. "There's Ben Walker i' th' parlour an' his mother," she said; "an they've come to talk to thee, Mary--aw thowt Ben had better come as weel." "Aw winnot see 'em," said Mary. "That's right," I said. "Tell 'em to tak' their hook, mother. They're none wanted here." "Tell 'em thissen, Ben. It's more o' yo'r business nor mine, an' more or Mary's nor yo'rs. Both on yo' see 'em's my advice, an' if yo' think they'll eit yo', I'll stand by to see fair play." "Aw'm none fit to be seen. Wait till aw tidy misen up a bit," said Mary, fastening her dress at the neck and prisoning some stray tresses of her hair.