“An’ there’s quite a new baby,” continued Jinny, opening her eyes wide, “a new, little, wee baby. That’s my own sister. Hoo’s so bonny, nobbut when hoo cries. Hoo cried jest now along o’ me makin’ a noise, and mother was some mad.” “Well, but your mother didn’t ought to have put ye in the wash-house for that,” returned Joe. “You didn’t go for to wakken the babby a-purpose. Theer, coom nigh the fire and warm thysel’ a bit. Eh, what little cowd hands. What’s that theer on thy arm?” Jinny turned her chubby arm and examined the mark reflectively. “I know!” she cried, “’twas where mother hit me with a spoon yesterday. I wer’ reachin’ for the sugar.” “Hoo hit ye, did hoo?” cried Joe, with a sort of roar. “My word! the woman mun ha’ a hard heart to hit a little lass same as thee. What was feyther doing, eh?” “Feyther was eatin’ his breakfast,” responded Jinny. “He said hoo didn’t ought to hit me—and then hoo got agate o’ bargein’ at him.” “Well, well,” commented Joe, who had been chafing the little cold hands throughout the recital, “the poor man’s pretty well moidered, I reckon. But coom! the goose ’ull soon be as cowd as thee if we don’t give over talkin’ an’ start eatin’. Thou’d like a bit o’ goose, wouldn’t thou?” “Eh, I would!” cried Jinny, with such whole-souled earnestness that he laughed again. Breaking from him she clambered into the chair opposite to his own—poor Mary’s chair. And there she sat, her feet a long way from the floor, but the better able on that account to give certain little kicks to the table in token of ecstasy. Joe looked across at her: how strange to see that chubby face, and golden head, in the place of the kindly wrinkled countenance which had so often smiled affectionately back at him from between the closely pleated frills of Mary’s antiquated cap! But the chair was no longer empty, and, though Joe sighed as he took up his knife and fork, he thought that the tangible vision of the expectant little face was, on the whole, more conducive to dispel loneliness than the most determined attempts at make-believe. “Hoo’s not theer,” he muttered; “hoo’ll never be theer no more, but it’s a good job as yon little lass chanced to look in—’tis better nor the wash-house for the little thing, as how ’tis.” Who shall say how Jinny revelled in the goose, and the stuffing, and the apple-sauce—particularly in the apple-sauce? It was pleasant to see the solemnity with which she presently selected the biggest potato in the dish, and, sliding down from her chair, marched round the table to bestow it on her host. “You deserve it,” said she, with a quaintly condescending air—“you are so good. Besides you are the owdest,” she added as an after thought. “Well, to be sure!” ejaculated Joe, leaning back in his chair the better to clap his hands.