Mary Batchelor listened to him for a while, her head bent with something of the submission of the old servant, till something he said roused again the quick shudder, the look of anguished protest. "Aye, I dessay it's aw reet, Mr. George--I dessay it is--what yer say. The inspectors is very cliver--an the wages is paid proper. But theer--say what yer will! I've a son on the railway out Lichfield way--an he's allus taakin about is long hours--they're killing im, he says--an I allus ses to im, 'Yer may jest thank the Lord, Harry, as yer not in the pits.' He never gets no pity out o me. An soomtimes I wakes in the morning, an I thinks o the men, cropin away in the dark--down theer--under me and my bed--for they do say the pits now runs right under Ferth village--an I think to mysel--how long will it be before yo poor fellers is laying like my Jim? Yer may be reet about the accidents, Mr. George--but I _know_, ef yer wor to go fro house to house i this village--it would be like tis in the Bible--I've often thowt o them words--'_Theer was not a house_--no, nary one!--_where there was not one dead_.'" She hung her head again, muttering to herself. George made out with difficulty that she was going through one phantom scene after another--of burning, wounds, and sudden death. One or two of the phrases--of the fragmentary details that dropped out without name or place--made his flesh creep. He was afraid lest Letty should hear them, and was just putting out his hand for his hat, when Mrs. Batchelor gripped his arm again. Her face--so white and large-featured--had the gleam of something like a miserable smile upon it. "Aye, an the men theirsels ud say jest as you do. 'Lor. Mrs. Batchelor,' they'd say, 'why, the pits is as safe as a church'--an they'd _laff_--Jamie ud laff at me times. But it's the _women_, Mr. George, as knows--it's the women that ave to wash the bodies." A great trembling ran through her again. George instinctively rose, and motioned to Letty to go. She too rose, but she did not go. She stood by the door, her wide grey eyes fixed with a kind of fascination on the speaker; while behind her a ring of children could be seen in the street, staring at the pretty lady. Mary Batchelor saw nothing but Tressady, whom she was still holding by the arm--looking up to him. "Aye, but I didna disturb my Jamie, yer know. Noa!--I left im i the owd coat they'd thrown over im i the pit--I dursn't ha touched is back. Noa, I _dursn't_. But I made his shroud mysen, an I put it ower his poor workin clothes, an I washed his face, an is hands an feet--an then I kissed him, an I said, 'Jamie, yo mun go an tell the Lord as yo ha done your best, an He ha dealt hardly by you!--an that's the treuth--He ha dealt hardly by yer!'" She gave a loud sob, and bowed her head on her hands a moment. Then, pushing back her grey locks from her face, she rose, struggling for composure. "Aye, aye, Mr. George--aye, aye, I'll not keep yer no longer."