She spoke feebly, and with many pauses. Her brother-in-law, though a rough kind of man, wished to do all he could to make her feel easy in her last moments, and touched with the reference to his dead brother, promised all she required. “I’ll take him back with me after”—the funeral, he was going to say, but he stopped. She smiled gently, fully understanding his meaning. “We shall, may be, not be so tender with him as you’ve been; but I’ll see he comes to no harm. It will be a good thing for him to rough it a bit with other children,—he’s too nesh for a boy; but I’ll pay them if they aren’t kind to him in the long run, never fear.” Though this speech was not exactly what she liked, there was quite enough of good feeling in it to make her thankful for such a protector and friend for her boy. And so, thankful for the joys she had had, and thankful for the sorrows which had taught her meekness, thankful for life, and thankful for death, she died. Her brother-in-law arranged all as she had wished. After the quiet simple funeral was over, he took Tom by the hand, and set off on the six-mile walk to his home. Tom had cried till he could cry no more, but sobs came quivering up from his heart every now and then, as he passed some well-remembered cottage, or thorn-bush, or tree on the road. His uncle was very sorry for him, but did not know what to say, or how to comfort him. “Now mind, lad, thou com’st to me if thy cousins are o’er hard upon thee. Let me hear if they misuse thee, and I’ll give it them.” Tom shrunk from the idea that this gave him of the cousins, whose companionship he had, until then, been looking forward to as a pleasure. He was not reassured when, after threading several streets and by-ways, they came into a court of dingy-looking houses, and his uncle opened the door of one, from which the noise of loud, if not angry voices was heard. A tall large woman was whirling one child out of her way with a rough movement of her arm; while she was scolding a boy a little older than Tom, who stood listening sullenly to her angry words. “I’ll tell father of thee, I will,” said she; and turning to uncle John, she began to pour out her complaints against Jack, without taking any notice of little Tom, who clung to his uncle’s hand as to a protector in the scene of violence into which he had entered. “Well, well, wife!—I’ll leather Jack the next time I catch him letting the water out of the pipe; but now get this lad and me some tea, for we’re weary and tired.”