Well, now, whether it was the influence of the tea or the potato-cake or the snug comfort of my little bedroom, to which my father brought his pipe, I know not. But this is certain, that no sooner had Ruth handed him his long churchwarden, and the weed had attained an assured glow, and Ruth had nestled up to his knee, seated on a little hassock with her steel knitting needles glinting in the fire's rays as they threaded warp and weft for my winter "comforter," or neck muffler, than my father began: "Well, old Mother Sykes of Burnplatts has gone at last. She's been failing this while back. I scarce expected her to last so long." "Dead!" I cried. "Mother Sykes dead!" My father nodded gravely. "She passed quietly away at two o'clock this afternoon. I was with her, and that strange girl we've always thought so much out of her natural sphere at Burnplatts. A wild, untamed spirit, I fear; but a good heart, a good and a feeling heart. She'd had a stormy and eventful, life, poor soul, but thank God her end was peace." "What, Miriam's?" I gasped. "Miriam's, no--I was talking of the old woman. She had a deal to tell me, as well as her breathing would let her, but she gave me to understand that you, Abel, knew all it was needful to know. I've never compelled your confidence, Abel, but I'm not aware that I've been a hard father or sought ought but my children's good." My conscience smote me. I had had it in my mind many a time to tell him how things stood between me and Miriam. But to tell the honest truth I had put off and put off because I more than feared he would bid me see Miriam no more. And obey him in that I knew I could not do. "She's to be buried next Friday. She wants to lie at Pole Moor, but I don't quite know how that may be. Our little croft's getting very full, and the fathers and mothers in Israel have their claim. There's our own grave, to be sure: there's room left there for me by your dear mother's side, and for you, Abel, and for Ruth." "Oh," cried Ruth, "th' poor woman can have my share, and welcome. I'll make shift anywhere The old dame's been cuffed about enough in her lifetime, without being hawked about now she's dead." "Well, we'll see," said my father, patting Ruth's plump little hand fondly. "'Let all things be done decently and in order' the Book says. And I fear me some of the brethren may regard the departed as the Hebrews of old looked on the uncircumcised. But truly we're under the New Dispensation, and the letter killeth, but the spirit keepeth alive." "There's another text, father, about the dead burying their dead. What about the living? What about Miriam? If her grandmother made things plain to you, Burnplatts is no place for her now her only protector's dead and gone. Come to that, it never was. Surely she's not left alone in the house with her dead. Oh, if I'd only the strength of a kitling I'd be down to Burnplatts myself. You'll go, Ruth?"