The dominie moved his head in silent assent, then with broken voice breathed low, "Let us pray," and Mrs. Schofield flung her apron over her head as she sank upon her knees, and Redfearn and Mr. Black knelt by the bedside. 'Twas but a simple prayer that God's mercy might have been vouchsafed to the sister who had passed away, far from her friends and home, a nameless wanderer, with none to help but the Father who had called his wandering child to the land where the wicked cease from troubling and the weary are at rest,--His own sweet home; a prayer, too, that God would raise up friends for the orphaned bairn that would never know a mother's love nor perchance a father's care. And as he prayed Redfearn's hand pressed heavy on his arm and in hoarse tones the farmer muttered. "God forgive me all my sins--I'll find the wee lad's father, if he's in the three Ridings, an' if aw dunnot th' lad shall nivver want for bite nor sup." Then as though ashamed, he groped his way down the dingy stair-case and flung himself into the big oaken arm-chair that none ventured to dispute with him. But it was not in the nature of the man to be long oppressed by brooding thought or to abandon himself to the bitter-sweet reflections of sombre-visaged melancholy. His active, restless temperament was impatient of reflection and his practical mind turned to the present need. "Aleck, yo'll go to Sam Sykes's an' order th' coffin, an' tell him to see about th' grave i' Saddleworth churchyard. Gi' my respects to th' vicar an' ask him to fix all about th' buryin', an Sykes 'll see about th' undertaker. Yo'll see th' poor lass put away, Betty, an' yo' too, Moll, an' yo'll want a black gown, aw dessay. Well, thank God ther's a shot i' th' locker yet. Give us th' bag out o'th cupboard, Betty. It's weel aw left it last neet, aw med ha' known. An' now what wi one thing an' another awm fair done an' yo mun bring me summat to put a bit o' heart i' me." "It's weel talkin' o' puttin' folk away," broke in Moll, in no way softened by the prospect of a new gown. "Th' dead's soon away wi'; but what abart th' child here?" and Molly turned aside the flannel covering the infant face. "Dooms! Aw'd fair forgetten th' bairn," said Fairbank, "Let's ha' a look at it bi th' winder mi eyes are none so good as they used to be." Molly reluctantly placed the little one in the farmer's outstretched arms and he bore it to the light. "A fine child as ivver yo' seen," said Mrs. Schofield. "It's gotten my Benny's things on, leastwise them at 'aw made for him wi' my own fingers, but it warn't to be, for th' poor lad nivver breathed but once. Eh! It's a queer warld; them as could do wi childer an' thank the Lord for 'em cannot ha' 'em, an' them as sudna ha' 'em,--they come a troopin'. It passes me altogether." Mr. Black was casting anxious glances at the long sleeve clock, its long brass hand now marching upwards to that ninth hour of the morn that every schoolboy dreads. "I must be going," he said.