Mrs. Ashcroft nodded. “The fourth--no, the fifth day. Wednesday ’twas. I knowed ’e was workin’ at Smalldene again. I asked ’is mother in the street, bold as brass. She ’adn’t room to say much, for Bessie--you know ’er tongue--was talkin’ full-clack. But that Wednesday, I was walkin’ with one o’ Bessie’s chillern hangin’ on me skirts, at de back o’ Chanter’s Tot. Prasin’ly, I felt ’e was be’ind me on the footpath, an’ I knowed by ’is tread ’e’d changed ’is nature. I slowed, an’ I heard ’im slow. Then I fussed a piece with the child, to force him past me, like. So ’e _’ad_ to come past. ’E just says ‘Good-evenin’,’ and goes on, tryin’ to pull ’isself together.” “Drunk, was he?” Mrs. Fettley asked. “Never! S’runk an’ wizen; ’is clothes ’angin’ on ’im like bags, an’ the back of ’is neck whiter’n chalk. ’Twas all I could do not to oppen my arms an’ cry after him. But I swallered me spittle till I was back ’ome again an’ the chillern abed. Then I says to Bessie, after supper, ‘What in de world’s come to ’Arry Mockler?’ Bessie told me ’e’d been a-Hospital for two months, ’long o’ cuttin’ ’is foot wid a spade, muckin’ out the old pond at Smalldene. There was poison in de dirt, an’ it rooshed up ’is leg, like, an’ come out all over him. ’E ’adn’t been back to ’is job--carterin’ at Smalldene--more’n a fortnight. She told me the Doctor said he’d go off, likely, with the November frostes; an’ ’is mother ’ad told ’er that ’e didn’t rightly eat nor sleep, an’ sweated ’imself into pools, no odds ’ow chill ’e lay. An’ spit terrible o’ mornin’s. ‘Dearie me,’ I says. ‘But, mebbe hoppin’ ’ll set ’im right again,’ an’ I licked me thread-point an’ I fetched me needle’s eye up to it an’ I threads me needle under de lamp, steady as rocks. An’ dat night (me bed was in de wash-house) I cried an’ I cried. An’ _you_ know, Liz--for you’ve been with me in my throes--it takes summat to make me cry.” “Yes; but chile-bearin’ is on’y just pain,” said Mrs. Fettley. “I come round by cock-crow, an’ dabbed cold tea on me eyes to take away the signs. Long towards nex’ evenin’--I was settin’ out to lay some flowers on me ’usband’s grave, for the look o’ the thing--I met ’Arry over against where the War Memorial is now. ’E was comin’ back from ’is ’orses, so ’e couldn’t _not_ see me. I looked ’im all over, an’ ‘’Arry,’ I says twix’ me teeth, ‘come back an’ rest-up in Lunnon.’ ‘I won’t take it,’ he says, ‘for I can give ye naught.’ ‘I don’t ask it,’ I says. ‘By God’s Own Name, I don’t ask na’un! On’y come up an’ see a Lunnon doctor.’ ’E lifts ’is two ’eavy eyes at me: ‘’Tis past that, Gra’,’ ’e says. ‘I’ve but a few months left.’ ‘’Arry!’ I says. ‘_My_ man!’ I says. I couldn’t say no more. ’Twas all up in me throat. ‘Thank ye kindly, Gra’,’ ’e says (but ’e never says ‘my woman’), an’ ’e went on up-street an’ ’is mother--Oh, damn ’er!--she was watchin’ for ’im, an’ she shut de door be’ind ’im.”