“An’ for that same did the feyther of ye turn ye adrift, me poor Sam?” inquired Mike, striking into the talk. “No, not my father—he was dead; but my mother did.” “Your mither! Hivenly mither av us all!” exclaimed Mike, stupidly staring at the hunter. “I deserved it, Michael,” said the hunter. “Och, thin, tell us all and about it, Sam, dear,” said Mike sympathetically. And Longman briefly told his little story. “You see, my father was a small farmer at Chuxton, in the North Riding of Yorkshire. I do not remember him, though I hope some day to make his acquaintance in the upper world. He left this one when I was a very young child—the first and only child,” he began. “‘The only son of his mother, and she a widow?’ Ye’ll be looked after, Sam, be the Lord Himsilf, or ilse all the howly fathers have taiched me is not true,” put in Mike. “Our neighbors used to say that my mother spoiled me. I have often heard them say it to her before my face when I was a bairn.” “And, no doobt, they telled the truth,” exclaimed Dandy. “And what would the mither say to that?” inquired Mike. “She would only draw me to her side and kiss me, to comfort me for the mortification of hearing such words. But you were right, Dandy. The neighbors did tell the truth. My poor, widowed young mother did spoil her only child in her excessive fondness for him.” “Well, it was naterel,” admitted Dandy. “I grew up a very idle and headstrong boy, fonder of consorting with gamekeepers, and even with poachers, than of working on our farm. I think if I could have been taken on as an assistant by some gamekeeper, who would have given me plenty to do among guns and game, I might have been contented to stay at home; but I could get no such place. Besides, my work was badly wanted on the farm. We were not able to hire laborers. My mother, myself and one boy were expected to do everything; but I neglected my part,” said Longman with a deep sigh. No one made any reply. “Mother bore with me very patiently for all the years I was growing; but by the time I was twenty years old, and as strong and tall for that age as if I had been twenty-five instead, and when the farm had been growing from bad to worse for years, my poor mother frequently lost her temper and scolded me—scolded me, a man, whom she had never scolded as a boy.” “And, faith, ye desarved it, hinny,” said Dandy. “Yes, I know I did. But one thing I can remember with satisfaction: bad as I was, I never gave my mother what she would have called ‘the back answer.’ I never in my life spoke an undutiful word to my mother.” “Good for ye, Sam!” exclaimed Mike. “When her words were very sharp and bitter, and I could stand them no longer, I used to take my hat and walk out, and never come back till night. And she—poor mother!—she would have a nice, hot supper waiting for her prodigal son, with some extra luxury that she could ill afford added to the feast.” “An’ she was a good craychur, be that same token,” exclaimed Mike.