“Ah,” she interrupted, “he all’ays coom theer—all’ays fro’ the time when he wur a little lad. He’d coom theer, and press his face to the window, and tap three times same as yo’ did to-neet—he all’ays tapped three times. And I used to look up from my little stool i’ the corner and nod at him, and at arter a bit get up and stale out when feyther and moother wurna lookin’—fur they’d all’ays barge if they cotched me playin’ wi’ Will Davis. The Davises were cocklin’ folk—very rough—a bad lot ’twas said, and my feyther didn’t reckon to let me go wi’ ’em. But my Will, he was never same as t’others—a gradely little lad he wur, good at’s books and never up to no mischeef. ‘I’ll noan be a cocklemon same as my feyther,’ he’d say; ‘when I goo to say I’ll goo a bit fur’er off. I’ll sail fur, wheer theer’s no lond an’ no houses, an’ no naught, nobbut wayter, wayter, wayter—same as it says in my book.’ Folks thought it a wonderful thing to see a little chap same as him goin’ so reg’lar to school. But t’other lads ’ud laugh at him for goin’ barefoot; poor Will, he hadn’t niver a shoe to his foot.” She broke off to laugh softly to herself; her eyes were again fixed, on the fire, and her mind had evidently conjured up a vivid picture of the lad as he had been in bygone days. “Eh, I mind when he’d coom patterin’ ower th’ weet sand to this place he’d leave tracks o’s little bare feet all round the house; and my feyther ’ud barge and sauce me terrible if he coom out and saw them. “‘Yon little raskil Will’s been here again,’ he’d say; ‘my word, I’ll thrash him if I cotch him here.’ “And moother, hoo’d tak’ me by the ear, and drag me across the kitchen and sit me down on my stool i’ th’ corner wi’ my patchwork. ‘If thou dar’s so mich as say a word to yon agin’, hoo’d say, ‘I’ll fetch birch-rod to thee.’ “But ’tweren’t o’ no use. Soon as ever I’d hear the three taps, and see the roguish e’en o’ Will laughin’ in at me through the window, I’d mak’ my way to him soom gate. Yigh, I wur terrible headstrong. Poor mother—hoo’d a done better to ha’ takken rod to me—but hoo never did more nor talk—hoo thought the warld o’ me, and so did my feyther.” “Were your parents alive when you married?” I inquired, breaking in upon the somewhat lengthy silence which ensued.