“There was my mother first and then his, both at us.  First one said, ’You don’t know what it is to live in the country, you that have been used to going about under the gas-lamps at night’; and then the other, ’You don’t know what it is to be shut in to the lamp at night and have no one but your two selves to look at.’  It was always the same.  ‘You don’t know what it is,’ or ‘You’ll be lonely.’  And Thomas and I always said the same thing back.  ‘Well,’ we said, ‘we can but try.’  Well, we did try, and we found that cottage up Somer’s Lane, and when I came with him the first day I began to think, what if my mother was right.  It was so silent as if something was going to happen.  I kept looking out of the window to see if it was, but nothing did, and the next morning his mother came down with the bedding and the five children we had then, and I’ve never felt lonely since.  Nine children, all living, keep you on your feet.”

“Be thankful they’ve all turned out well,” said Anne, with a sigh, thinking of the house she had left.

“Trust ’em! that’s what I say,” returned Mrs Crowther.  “Plenty of good, plain food, and plenty of good, warm, woollen underclothing, and there’ll not go much wrong with their bodies, and trust ’em for their characters.  I was talking to Mrs Hankworth the other day—­she’s done better than me, she’s had twelve—­’I never was one for much whipping,’ she said.  ’I never found you did much good by it.  You can break the spirit of a horse by whipping, but you can’t change its character.  Give ’em all plenty of occupation at home, and they’ll not want to go out in the evenings.’  I was glad to hear her say so, for I’ve always felt like that myself.  There was Ted had his fret-saw, and William was always one for making collections of butterflies or birds’ eggs, and John was always one for politics.  He’d sit reading any newspaper he could get hold of, and arguing with his father.  I always knew he’d not stop in the country.  He was always for the things that was doing in the town at meetings and unions, and he took no interest in farming or country work.  It was always railways or politics with him.  He was the first to go,” said Mrs Crowther, her face taking that fixed serious expression, betraying the inward attitude which in another woman would have meant tears.  “You’ve a lot of work to do when they’re little, but you can shut the door at night and know they’re all inside with you; but there’s a day comes to gentle as well as simple, when you shut the door at night and some of them’s outside.  Sometimes you wake in the night and you wonder if there’s anything more you could have done for ’em, and you vex yourself a lot more over them when they’ve gone from you than you ever do when they’re with you.  You have a feeling when they’re at home, that if they want you you’re there.  But it’s another matter when they can’t get at you for all their wanting or yours either for that matter.”