“'Tim,' she said to me, as if she wur haaf feart--aye, feart o' him, an' me standin' by. Three hours afore, th' law ud ha' let me mill any mon 'at feart her. 'Tim,' she says, 'surely he wunnot refuse to let us go together to th' little lad's grave--fur th' last time.' She didna speak to him but ti me, an' she spoke still an' strained as if she wui too heart-broke to be wild. Her face was as white as th' dead, but she didna cry, as ony other woman would ha' done. 'Come, Tim,' she said, 'he conna say no to that.' “An' so out we went 'thout another word, an' left th' black-hearted rascal behind, sittin' i' th' very room th' little un deed in. His cradle stood theer i' th' corner. We went out into th' moonlight 'thout speakin', an' we didna say a word until we come to this very place, Mester. “We stood here for a minute silent, an' then I sees her begin to shake, an' she throws hersen down on th' grass wi' her arms flung o'er th' grave, an' she cries out as if her death-wound had been give to her. “'Little lad,' she says, 'little lad, dost ta see thy mother? Canst na tha hear her callin' thee? Little lad, get nigh to th' Throne an' plead!' “I fell down beside o' th' poor crushed wench an' sobbed wi' her. I couldna comfort her, for wheer wur there any comfort for us? Theer wur none left--theer wur no hope. We was shamed an' broke down--our lives was lost. Th' past wur nowt--th' future wur worse. Oh, my poor lass, how hard she tried to pray--fur me, Mester--yes, fur me, as she lay theer wi' her arms round her dead babby's grave, an' her cheek on th' grass as grew o'er his breast. 'Lord God-a'-moighty, she says, 'help us--dunnot gi' us up--dunnot, dunnot. We conna do 'thowt thee now, if th' time ever wur when we could. Th' little chap mun be wi' thee, I moind th' bit o' comfort about getherin' th' lambs i' his bosom. An', Lord, if tha could spare him a minnit, send him down to us wi' a bit o' leet. Oh, Feyther! help th' poor lad here--help him. Let th' weight fa' on me, not on him. Just help th' poor lad to bear it. If ever I did owt as wur worthy i' thy sight, let that be my reward. Dear Lord-a'-moighty, I'd be willin' to gi' up a bit o' my own heavenly glory fur th' dear lad's sake.' “Well, Mester, she lay theer on th' grass pray in' an crying wild but gentle, fur nigh haaf an hour, an' then it seemed 'at she got quoite loike, an' she got up. Happen th' Lord had hearkened an' sent th' child--happen He had, fur when she getten up her face looked to me aw white an' shinin' i' th' clear moonlight. “'Sit down by me, dear lad,' she said, 'an' hold my hand a minnit.' I set down an' took hold of her hand, as she bid me. “'Tim,' she said, 'this wur why th' little chap deed. Dost na tha see now 'at th' Lord knew best?' “'Yes, lass,' I answers humble, an' lays my face on her hand, breakin' down again. “'Hush, dear lad,' she whispers, 'we hannot time fur that. I want to talk to thee. Wilta listen?'