As they stumbled up the entry, Elizabeth Bates heard Rigley’s wife run across the yard and open her neighbour’s door. At this, suddenly all the blood in her body seemed to switch away from her heart. “Mind!” warned Rigley. “Ah’ve said many a time as Ah’d fill up them ruts in this entry, sumb’dy ’ll be breakin’ their legs yit.” She recovered herself and walked quickly along with the miner. “I don’t like leaving the children in bed, and nobody in the house,” she said. “No, you dunna!” he replied courteously. They were soon at the gate of the cottage. “Well, I shanna be many minnits. Dunna you be frettin’ now, ’e’ll be all right,” said the butty. “Thank you very much, Mr Rigley,” she replied. “You’re welcome!” he stammered, moving away. “I shanna be many minnits.” The house was quiet. Elizabeth Bates took off her hat and shawl, and rolled back the rug. When she had finished, she sat down. It was a few minutes past nine. She was startled by the rapid chuff of the winding-engine at the pit, and the sharp whirr of the brakes on the rope as it descended. Again she felt the painful sweep of her blood, and she put her hand to her side, saying aloud, “Good gracious!—it’s only the nine o’clock deputy going down,” rebuking herself. She sat still, listening. Half an hour of this, and she was wearied out. “What am I working myself up like this for?” she said pitiably to herself, “I s’ll only be doing myself some damage.” She took out her sewing again. At a quarter to ten there were footsteps. One person! She watched for the door to open. It was an elderly woman, in a black bonnet and a black woollen shawl—his mother. She was about sixty years old, pale, with blue eyes, and her face all wrinkled and lamentable. She shut the door and turned to her daughter-in-law peevishly. “Eh, Lizzie, whatever shall we do, whatever shall we do!” she cried. Elizabeth drew back a little, sharply. “What is it, mother?” she said. The elder woman seated herself on the sofa. “I don’t know, child, I can’t tell you!”—she shook her head slowly. Elizabeth sat watching her, anxious and vexed. “I don’t know,” replied the grandmother, sighing very deeply. “There’s no end to my troubles, there isn’t. The things I’ve gone through, I’m sure it’s enough——!” She wept without wiping her eyes, the tears running. “But, mother,” interrupted Elizabeth, “what do you mean? What is it?” The grandmother slowly wiped her eyes. The fountains of her tears were stopped by Elizabeth’s directness. She wiped her eyes slowly. “Poor child! Eh, you poor thing!” she moaned. “I don’t know what we’re going to do, I don’t—and you as you are—it’s a thing, it is indeed!” Elizabeth waited. “Is he dead?” she asked, and at the words her heart swung violently, though she felt a slight flush of shame at the ultimate extravagance of the question. Her words sufficiently frightened the old lady, almost brought her to herself.