"Eh, but Mr. Black," she half sobbed, "but it's good for sair e'en to see yo' or any other Christian soul after such a time as aw've passed through this very neet that's passed and gone. Glory be to God. And oh! Mi poor head, if it doesna crack it's a lucky woman Betty Schofield will be. If it hadn't been for a cup o' tay goodness only knows but what aw'd ha' sunk entirely, and Moll o Stute's wi' no more feelin' nor a stone. But sit yo' down, sir, an' drink a dish o' tea." Now black tea in those days was 8s. a pound and a tea-drinking was almost as solemn a function as a Church sacrament. Tea was not to be lightly drunk, and indeed was reserved chiefly for funerals and christenings. The women folk of the middle classes drank it at times to mark their social status, as people now-a-days emblazon emblems of spurious heraldry on the panels of their broughams. The men held it in derision as a milksop's beverage and swore by the virtues of hops and malt. But Mr. Black was fain to forget his manhood nor resisted over much when a certain cordial, darkly alluded to as "brown cream" and commonly supposed to mellow in the plantations of Jamaica, was added to the fragrant cup. "And the poor woman?" he asked timidly at last. "Ah! Poor woman well may yo' call her, though mebbe now she's richer nor any on us, for if ever misguided wench looked like a saint i' heaven she does--an' passed away as quiet as a lamb, at two o'clock this mornin' just as th' clock theer wer strikin' th' hour. Eh! But she's a bonnie corpse as ever aw seed but she looks so like an angel fro' heaven aw'm awmost feart to look at her. Yo'll like to see her, but Fairbanks 'll be comin' down aw doubt na an' yo'll go up together." "Did she speak, is there anything to show who or what she is?" "Not a word, not a sign, not a mark on linen or paper; but oo's no common trollop that aw'st warrant, tho' she _had_ no ring on her finger." "Maybe her straits compelled her to part with it," suggested Mr. Black. "Weel, weel, mebbe, mebbe, tho' it's th' last thing a decent woman parts wi', that an' her marriage-lines. But, as I said, th' poor thing med no sign. 'Oo just oppened her sweet e'en as Moll theer laid th' babby to her breast, an' her poor hand tried to touch its face, an' just th' quiver o' a smile fluttered on her lips, an' then all wer' ovver, but so quiet like, so quiet, 'twere more a flutterin' away nor deein'. Eh! But awm thankful 'oo deed i' my bed an' not o'th moor buried i' a drift"--and the tears once more trickled down Mrs. Schofield's rounded cheek. Mr. Black took the plump left hand that rested on the widow's lap and gently pressed it in token of the sympathy his lips could not express. Could mortal man do less? "It's times like these a poor widow feels her lonesome state," murmured Mrs. Schofield. Mr. Black withdrew his hand, and the grim visage of Priscilla flashed across his vision.