He did not see me at first, and I was almost inclined to think it best to leave him alone; but as I half turned away he stirred with something like a faint moan, and then lifted his head and saw me standing in the bright, clear moonlight. “Who's theer?” he said. “Dost ta want owt?” “It is only Doncaster, Hibblethwaite,” I returned, as I sprang over the low stone wall to join him. “What is the matter, old fellow? I thought I heard you groan just now.” “Yo' mought ha' done, Mester,” he answered heavily. “Happen tha did. I dunnot know mysen. Nowts th' matter though, as I knows on, on'y I'm a bit out o' soarts.” He turned his head aside slightly and began to pull at the blades of grass on the mound, and all at once I saw that his hand was trembling nervously. It was almost three minutes before he spoke again. “That un belongs to me,” he said suddenly at last, pointing to a longer mound at his feet. “An' this little un,” signifying with an indescribable gesture the small one upon which he sat. “Poor fellow,” I said, “I see now.” “A little lad o' mine,” he said, slowly and tremulously. “A little lad o' mine an'--an' his mother.' “What!” I exclaimed, “I never knew that you were a married man, Tim.” He dropped his head upon his hand again, still pulling nervously at the grass with the other. “Th' law says I beant, Mester,” he answered in a painful, strained fashion. “I conna tell mysen what God-a'-moighty 'ud say about it.” “I don't understand,” I faltered; “you don't mean to say the poor girl never was your wife, Hibblethwaite.” “That's what th' law says,” slowly; “I thowt different mysen, an' so did th' poor lass. That's what's the matter, Mester; that's th' trouble.” The other nervous hand went up to his bent face for a minute and hid it, but I did not speak. There was so much of strange grief in his simple movement that I felt words would be out of place. It was not my dogged, inexplicable “hand” who was sitting before me in the bright moonlight on the baby's grave; it was a man with a hidden history of some tragic sorrow long kept secret in his homely breast,--perhaps a history very few of us could read aright. I would not question him, though I fancied he meant to explain himself. I knew that if he was willing to tell me the truth it was best that he should choose his own time for it, and so I let him alone. And before I had waited very long he broke the silence himself, as I had thought he would. “It wur welly about six year ago I comn here,” he said, “more or less, welly about six year. I wur a quiet chap then, Mester, an' had na many friends, but I had more than I ha' now. Happen I wur better nater'd, but just as loike I wur loigh-ter-hearted--but that's nowt to do wi' it.