solemn; but there was no fear or doubt expressed in it, either of him or of his compliance. He sullenly rose up. He stood uncertain, with dogged irresolution upon his face. She waited him there; quietly and patiently waited for his time to move. He had a strange pleasure in making her wait; but at last he moved towards the stairs.
She and he stood by the corpse.
"Her last words to Mary were, 'Keep my father fro' drink.'"
"It canna hurt her now," muttered he. Nought can hurt her now." Then, raising his voice to a wailing cry, he went on: "We may quarrel and fall out—we may make peace and be friends—we may clem to skin and bone—and nought o' all our griefs will ever touch her more. Hoo's had her portion on 'em. What wi' hard work first, and sickness at last, hoo's led the life of a dog. And to die without knowing one good piece o' rejoicing in all her days! Nay, wench, whatever hoo said, hoo can know nought about it now, and I mun ha'a sup o' drink just to steady me again sorrow."
"No," said Margaret, softening with his softened manner. "You shall not. If her life has been what you say, at any rate she did not fear death as some do. Oh, you should have heard her speak of the life to come—the life hidden with God, that she is now gone to."
He shook his head, glancing sideways up at Margaret as he did so. His pale, haggard face struck her painfully.
"You are sorely tired. Where have you been all day—not at work?"
