“The doctor says ’e’d been dead hours. ’E saw ’im i’ th’ lamp-cabin.”
The old woman, who stood just behind Elizabeth, dropped into a chair, and folded her hands, crying: “Oh, my boy, my boy!”
“Hush!” said Elizabeth, with a sharp twitch of a frown. “Be still, mother, don’t waken th’ children: I wouldn’t have them down for anything!”
The old woman moaned softly, rocking herself. The man was drawing away. Elizabeth took a step forward.
“How was it?” she asked.
“Well, I couldn’t say for sure,” the man replied, very ill at ease. “ ’E wor finishin’ a stint an’ th’ butties ’ad gone, an’ a lot o’ stuff come down atop ’n ’im.”
“And crushed him?” cried the widow, with a shudder.
“No,” said the man, “it fell at th’ back of ’im. ’E wor under th’ face, an’ it niver touched ’im. It shut ’im in. It seems ’e wor smothered.”
Elizabeth shrank back. She heard the old woman behind her cry:
“What?—what did ’e say it was?”
The man replied, more loudly: “ ’E wor smothered!”
Then the old woman wailed aloud, and this relieved Elizabeth.
“Oh, mother,” she said, putting her hand on the old woman, “don’t waken th’ children, don’t waken th’ children.”
She wept a little, unknowing, while the old mother
