the poor widow, wiping her eyes behind her flowing veil, felt soothed and in a manner elated.  No one could say but what her master had a gradely buryin’.  She could not repress a certain honest pride, and, oddly enough, though the neighbours were quite aware that without their assistance this desirable appearance would never have been presented, they were none the less impressed, and felt that Mrs. ——­ deserved great credit.

If sentiment be not common among us, there is no dearth of “feelin’,” though it is sometimes exhibited in unusual and rather startling fashion.  The doctor, for instance, was somewhat taken aback one day by the reply of a poor man with whom he had been condoling over the death of an only son.

“I tell ye,” sobbed the inconsolable parent, “if it hadn’t bin for what neighbours ‘ud say, I’d ha’ had th’ little divil stuffed.”

There is no rule without its exception, and, though our people are for the most part affectionate and tender-hearted in their own rugged way, I am bound to own there are some Stoics in our midst.

One old woman, in particular, whom I have known to be afflicted in a variety of ways, has never betrayed the least sign of emotion; whether she is incapable of it, or whether she heroically conceals it, I have been unable to discover.

She lost two sons in rapid succession after a few hours’ illness.

“What did they die of?” asked some one sympathetically.

As a rule such a remark would have led to a flood of tearful and affectionate reminiscences, but this old lady was laconic.

“One deed of a Tuesday, and one of a Thursday,” she replied.

The third son a short time afterwards, returning home from market slightly hazy in his ideas, was run over by an express train as he endeavoured to cross the line.

Next morning the body was found, horribly mutilated, and a porter was despatched to break the tidings to the bereaved mother.  The man, overcome with the horror of the event, and full of compassion for the white-haired woman—­who stood stolidly awaiting his message, evidently unsuspicious of its tenor—­could scarcely find words with which to tell the news.

“There’s bin an accident,” he faltered, “we’n foun’ a mon o’ th’ rails—­dead—­cut t’ pieces by a train.”

Old Lizzie stared at him in silence; then a light seemed to break in on her.

“Ah,” she said.  “Happen it’s our Bill!”

And with that she turned on her heel and went upstairs to select a winding-sheet for him.

Some of our folks like to talk about their troubles.  Over and over again they tell you, almost in the same words, exactly how it all came about.  A poor woman pleats her apron and gazes at you with pathetic eyes, which she stops to wipe occasionally.  The story has grown familiar to both relater and listener, and sometimes you are regaled not only with the tale itself, but with the repetition of your own comments thereon.