'Th' flute were my salvation agen, Mr. Penrose, when our lad deed. He wor just one-and-twenty, and he's bin dead eighteen year. Brass is nothin' when it comes to berryin' yor own, Mr. Penrose. Poverty may touch a mon's pride, but death touches his heart. When yo' see yor own go aat o' th' haas feet fermost, and yo' know it's for good an' o', there's summat taan aat o' yo' that nothin' ever maks up for at afterwards. I wor a long time afore I forgave th' Almeety for takin' aar Joe. And all the time I owed Him a grudge, and kep' on blamin' Him like; I got wurr and wurr, until I welly went mad. Then I coome across th' old flute, and it seemed to say, "I'll help thee agen." "Nay, owd brid," I said, "tha cornd. It's noan brass this time, it's mi lad." And th' owd flute seemed to say, "Try me." So I tuk it up, and put it to mi lips and blew--yi, aat of a sad heart, Mr. Penrose--but it wor reet. Th' owd flute gi' me back mi prayer--grace for grace, as yo' parsons say, whatever yo' mean by't. And as I sat on th' bench i' th' garden--same bench as yo' saw me sittin' on this afternoon--my missis coome to th' dur, and hoo said, "Enoch, what doesto think?" "Nay, lass," I said, "I durnd know." "Why," hoo says, "I think as thaa's fotched aar Joe daan fro' heaven to hear thee playin'; he seems nearer to me naa nor he ever did sin' he left us." And so, ever afterwards, Mr. Penrose, when we want to feel aar Joe near us, I just taks up th' flute and plays, and he awlus comes.' Old Enoch paused, for his voice was thick, and with his handkerchief he wiped away the moisture from his eyes. In another minute he continued: