“Thik wold settle. ’Twas here they did lay en when they carried en in arter that there accident wi’ his gun what killed en. An’ I knelt down as it mid be here” (pointing with her hand), “an’ he couldn’t speak nor yet move, but he jist looked at I, an’ I looked back, an’ I took his poor hand an’ kissed it, an’ then when I looked again he wer’ gone.” “I’m sure ye didn’t ought to be thinkin’ o’ sich things,” burst out Phoebe, with an irritation that was part real, part feigned, to conceal her alarm. “What call have ’ee now to be fetchin’ ’em up arter all they years—fifty year an’ more, I’m sure, what have gone by since. If ye must think o’ anybody why don’t ye think o’ poor father? The best husband as a woman need wish to be tied-to, I’m sure; him as was allus so kind an’ worked for ye so faithful—why, you was his wife for farty year very near.” “Farty year and ten month,” said Mrs Sweet-apple. “I do think of en, my dear, frequent,” she continued mildly. “There, as I do tell ’ee, him an’ Bartlett takes it week about. I do push back settle to the carner, d’ye see, where it did bide all the years him an’ me lived together. I could never seem to have the heart to leave it in its wold place here arter Bartlett died. So I do push it back to the carner, an’ I do pull out Sweetapple’s chair, an’ I do set it where he did use to like it anigh the fire, an’ I do sit in my own where you be a-sittin’ now, an’ I do fetch out a wold sock an’ make a purtence o’ darnin’ it. An’ I do look up now an’ again, an’ fancy to myself I do see en a-sittin’ there in his shirt sleeves same as he did use to do, an’ a-smokin’ of his pipe. An’ I do say to en by times: ‘Well, Sweetapple, an’ how be the young birds a-lookin’?’ “Wonderful well,’ he d’ say, an’ then us’ll say nothin’ for a bit till by an’ by I’ll maybe tell en about a hen what I think ’ull soon go broody, or a clutch o’ young pheasants what I do think ’ull turn out very well. Why, there’s times when I do actually take en out o’ door to look at the pens. I do light lantern an’ carry it, an’ I do fancy I hear his steps aside o’ mine so plain—” “Mother,” exclaimed Phoebe, “do you truly mean you do go out at nights wi’ the lantern an’ all? Why, ye’ll be gettin’ lost in the woods so sure as anything, or maybe settin’ the whole place afire.” Mrs Sweetapple gazed at her, smiling again and rubbing her hands. “’Tis only a bit o’ nonsense, bain’t it?” queried her daughter anxiously, struck by a sudden thought. “You do jist fancy you do go out-o’-door same as you do fancy you be talkin’ wi’ my father—you don’t truly do sich a thing, do ye?” Mrs Sweetapple appeared to reflect:—