carried him oop to me; but t'was na use. He was quite cold and drownded. An' I went———" But the sobs, rising thickly, swallowed the rest.
Alec put his hand on her shoulder soothingly.
"Ay, I know'd ye'd be grieved, Mr. Burkett. He was the bonniest boy in all t' parish."
She lifted the apron to her eyes again, while he crossed to the railings. The wood of the posts was splintered and worm-eaten, and the lower rail was broken away. Below, the rock shelved down some fifteen feet to the beck-pool, black and oily-looking.
"It's a very dangerous place," he said, half to himself.
"Ay, Mr. Burkett, you're right," interrupted a bent and wizened old woman, tottering forward.
"This be grandmoother, Mr. Burkett," Mrs. Matheson explained. "'Twas grandmoother that see'd him last———"
"Ay, Mr. Burkett," the old woman began in a high, tremulous treble. "When I went fer to fill t' jug fer Maggie he was a-settin' on't' steps there playin' with t' kitten, an' he called after me, 'Nanny!' quite happy-like; but I took na notice, but jest went on fer t' water. I shawed Mr. Allison the broken rail last month, when he was gittin' t' rents, and I told him he ought to put it into repair, with all them wee childer playin' all daytime on't' road. Didn't I, Maggie?" Mrs. Matheson assented incoherently. "An' he was very civil-like, was Mr. Allison, and he said he'd hev' it seen to. It's alus that way, Mr. Burkett," the old woman concluded, shaking her head wisely. "Folks wait till some accident occurs, and then they think to bestir themselves."
Alec turned to the mother, and touched her thick, nerveless hand.
"There, there, Mrs. Matheson, don't take on so," he said.
At