“There, there, never mind,” interposed Barnes gloomily. “’Tis allus the same story. Young heads I suppose is what we mun look for on young shoulders.” And he went on with his tea, swallowing it in great gulps, and as it were under protest, and remarking every now and then below his breath that it wasn’t half drawed. At the conclusion of the meal the younger children slid down from their seats, and began to play noisily in a corner, while Maimie “sided” the things. Her father pushed back his chair, with a squeaking sound, over the tiled floor, lit his pipe, and, extending his stocking-clad feet to the blaze, smoked meditatively and despondently. Maimie glanced at him every now and then as she went backwards and forwards between kitchen and buttery, and at last, pausing opposite to him, encountered his steadfast and sombre gaze. “Come thou here, my lass,” he said; “put down yon dish, and come and sit here aside o’ me. Maimie,” he continued solemnly, “I’ve been thinkin’ o’ summat.” Maimie, impressed by his tone, gazed at him with scared blue eyes, not caring to speak. “Ah, I’ve been thinkin’ o’ summat,” he repeated, “summat rather partik’ler. First off I’ve been thinkin’ a dale about your mother, Maimie. I miss her dreadful.” “I’m sure ye do, feyther,” said the girl with a sob. “’Tis what we all do. Nobry can’t miss poor mother more nor me.” “’Tis a twelvemonth or more since she was took,” continued Barnes, in the same sepulchral tone. “Ah, a twelvemonth ’twas last Sunday week—and the house don’t seem like itself at all. I don’t say but what you do your best, my lass, but things seem to be warsening every day. I don’t know whatever mother ’ud say if she were here to see it—I don’t I’m sure. I’m fair moidered wi’ nobbut thinkin’ on it. It seems same as if I wasn’t doin’ my dooty by her, poor soul. She was allus that house-proud for one thing, and sich a manager. Summat ’ull ha’ to be done, Maimie.” Maimie began to whimper, and to wipe her eyes with her apron, and to protest in muffled tones from behind its folds that she did try, and she couldn’t tell how ’twas as things always seemed to slip her memory. The children was tiresome for one thing, and tore their clothes much more than when mother was alive, and they didn’t mind her a bit, and she had meant to make some apple-sauce, and, and—