“Nay, fetch me a pot of the wimberry jam,” said Mrs. Rigby.  “Theer’s jest two of ’em left.  My son-in-law,” she explained to the visitor, “he’s oncommon kind about humourin’ my fancies, an’ every year he fetches me a peck or two o’ wimberries—­you can get ’em reet enough here i’ th’ market, an’ I make us a few pots o’ jam—­’tis the only kind as ever I could fancy.  Eh, what baskets-full the childer used to bring me in i’ th’ owd days!  Will ye cut yourself a bit o’ bread, sir?  Tis a bit hard, I doubt; ‘tis the end o’ the last bakin’.  I wur jest agate with the next lot when ye coom in.”

He cut off a piece, and spread it with the wimberry jam, and ate a mouthful or two in silence; he seemed to swallow with difficulty, not because of the hardness of the fare, but because of a certain stirring at his heart.  How long was it since he had sat him down at such a board as this, and tasted bread, pure and sweet and wholesome, such as cannot be bought in shops, with the fruit of the moor for condiment?

“I doubt it’s hard,” said Mrs. Whiteside commiseratingly, “and you’re not eatin’ a bit neither, mother.  Come, fall to.”

“Eh, I canna eat nought fur thinkin’ o’ yon lad o’ mine.  How could he go for to think he’d not be welcome!  Ye’ll write and an’ tell him he’ll be welcome, sir, wunnot ye?”

He nodded.

“Eh, I’d be fain to see him, I would that!  Ye’ll tell him kind an’ careful, mester, about me havin’ to shift here, an’ dunnot let him think I’m axing him to do mich for me.”

“It’s time for him to do summat for ye, though,” said Will’s friend gruffly.

“Nay, I don’t ax it—­I don’t ax for nought.  I nobbut want to see his bonny face again.”

“Happen you wouldn’t know it,” said Mrs. Whiteside; “he mun be awful altered now.”

“Know it?  Know my own lad!  I’d pick him out among a thousand.”

“I’m not so sure o’ that,” persisted her daughter.  “Ye’ve seen our Will lately, I s’pose, mester?  Can ye tell us what like he is?”

“He’s rather like me,” said the stranger.

“My word, ye don’t say so!” gasped Mrs. Whiteside, while her mother, leaning forward, gazed eagerly into his face.

“He is very like me,” he said brokenly, and then, of a sudden, stretching out his hand he plucked the old woman by the sleeve:  “Wakken up, mother,” he cried; “mother, ’tis time to wakken up!”

SENTIMENT AND “FEELIN’”

As a rule our Lancashire peasants are not sentimental; in fact, degenerate south-countrymen frequently take exception to their blunt ways and terrible plain-speaking.  But occasionally they display an astonishing impressibility, and at all times know how to appreciate a bit of romance.

When three months after his wife’s death, for instance, Joe Balshaw married her cousin, because, as he explained, “hoo favoured our Mary,” all the neighbours thought such fidelity extremely touching.