“Eh,” said the old woman, beginning to laugh and shaking her head, “I’ll not deny but what the lad was a great fav’ryite.  The only lad ever I had, and my first-born.  Dear o’ me, I mind how proud I was when they telled me ’twas a lad.  ‘A fine lad,’ said the woman as did for me.  Eh, I thought my heart ‘ud fair burst wi’ joy!  An’ he wur sech a gradely little chap, so peart an’ lively, crowin’ an’ laughin’ from morn till neet.  Dear, yes—­soon as ever leet coom he’d come creepin’ up to our bed an’ pull at the sheet.  ‘Wakken up, mother,’ he’d say; ‘mother, it’s time to wakken up!’ Eh, mony a time I fancy I can hear the little voice when I wak’ up now, i’ this dark dirty place.  I keep my e’en shut, an’ hark at the birds chirrupin’, an’ think o’ the little hand pluckin’ at the sheet, an’ the little voice.  An’ then clock strikes an’ I oppen my e’en and see the smoke an’ the black chimnies—­eh, I’m welly smoored among ’em all!  I could fair go mad to find mysel’ so far away fro’ whoam.”

“But surely,” said the visitor, with a dreamy glance round, “you’ve made this place very home-like.”

“‘Tis, an’ ‘tisn’t.  Says I to Mary when she axed me to shift wi’ her, ‘I’ll not coom,’ says I, ‘wi’out I bring th’ clock an’ chest, an’ all they bits o’ things as I’m used to.’  ‘Eh, mother,’ says she, ’what would you be doin’ wi’ ’em down i’ London town?’—­’What should I be doin’ wi’ ’em?’ says I.  ‘Same as I do here,’ says I.  ‘If I coom wi’ you, my lass I mun keep to the owd ways.  I’m too owd mysel’ for aught else.  I mun keep th’ owd things an’ th’ owd fashions.’—­Is that a bit o’ heather as ye’ve getten i’ your hat, sir?”

“Yes,” said the man deliberately; “’tis a bit of heather—­and it comes from Boggart Moor.  I picked it last week when I went to look for you.”

“’Twas wonderful kind of you to go all that way, I’m sure,” said Mrs. Whiteside.  “I doubt our Will reckoned we was livin’ there still.  Tis years an’ years since we’ve had a word from him.  He didn’t know I’d got wed, very like.”

“No, he didn’t,” said the man.  “He thought his mother and sister were livin’ still in the little cot up yonder.  I had hard work to trace you.”

“How does the little place look, sir?” asked the old woman, with a wistful look.

“Much as usual,” returned he, half absently.  “They’n shifted the horse-block, an’ thrown the two shippons into one, an’ tiled the wash-house roof.”

Mrs. Rigby clacked her tongue, and her daughter stared.

“How did ye know about the horse-block?” she inquired, “an’ how did ye guess the shippons was throwed into one?  Did our Will tell you about the place?”

He paused a moment, and then laughed.

“Often and often.  He said he could find his way there blindfold, an’ I doubt he made me know it as well as himself.”

Mrs. Rigby stretched out her hand and touched the sprig of heather wistfully.

“The moor mun be lookin’ gradely now,” she said; “all one sheet o’ bloom, I reckon.  Eh, I mind how I used to leave windows open, summer an’ winter, an let the air come in, soomtimes hot an’ soomtimes cowd, but al’ays wi’ the smell o’ the moor in it.  Dear, when I think on’t I can scarce breathe here.”