Too Long; Didn't Read

“The steps of the bearers, heavy and slow,The sobs of the mourners, deep and low.”Shelley. At the time arranged the previous day, they set out on their walk to see Nicholas Higgins and his daughter. They both were reminded of their recent loss, by a strange kind of shyness in their new habiliments, and in the fact that it was the first time, for many weeks, that they had deliberately gone out together. They drew very close to each other in unspoken sympathy. Nicholas was sitting by the fire-side in his accustomed corner; but he had not his accustomed pipe. He was leaning his head upon his hand, his arm resting on his knee. He did not get up when he saw them, though Margaret could read the welcome in his eye. “Sit ye down, sit ye down. Fire’s welly out,” said he, giving it a vigorous poke, as if to turn attention away from himself. He was rather disorderly, to be sure, with a black unshaven beard of several days’ growth, making his pale face look yet paler, and a jacket which would have been all the better for patching. “We thought we should have a good chance of finding you, just after dinner-time,” said Margaret. “We have had our sorrows too, since we saw you,” said Mr. Hale. “Ay, ay. Sorrows is more plentiful than dinners just now; I reckon, my dinner hour stretches all o’er the day; yo’re pretty sure of finding me.” “Are you out of work?” asked Margaret. “Ay,” he replied shortly. Then, after a moment’s silence, he added, looking up for the first time: “I’m not wanting brass. Dunno yo’ think it. Bess, poor lass, had a little stock under her pillow, ready to slip into my hand, last moment, and Mary is fustian-cutting. But I’m out of work a’ the same.” “We owe Mary some money,” said Mr. Hale, before Margaret’s sharp pressure on his arm could arrest the words. “If hoo takes it, I’ll turn her out o’ doors. I’ll bide inside these four walls, and she’ll bide out. That’s a’.” “But we owe her many thanks for her kind service,” began Mr. Hale again. “I ne’er thanken your daughter theer for her deeds o’ love to my poor wench. I ne’er could find th’ words. I’se have to begin to try now, if yo’ start making an ado about what little Mary could sarve yo’.”