In the cottage by the smithy—­they stood together near the bridge—­the fire had been newly kindled.  Beneath a huge kettle, swung from an unseen iron hook, the boughs crackled and puffed and gave out the odor of green wood.

Bared up to the armpits and down to the breast, the blacksmith was washing himself in a bowl of water placed on a chair.  His mother sat on a low stool, with a pair of iron tongs in her hands, feeding the fire from a bundle of gorse that lay at one side of the hearth.  She was a big, brawny, elderly woman with large bony hands, and a face that had hard and heavy features, which were dotted here and there with discolored warts.  Her dress was slatternly and somewhat dirty.  A soiled linen cap covered a mop of streaky hair, mouse-colored and unkempt.

“He’s backset and foreset,” she said in a low tone.  “Ey, eye; he’s made a sad mull on’t.”

Mrs. Garth purred to herself as she lifted another pile of gorse on to the crackling fire.

Joe answered with a grating laugh, and then with a burr he applied a towel to his face.

“Nay, nay, mother.  He has a gay bit of gumption in him, has Ray.  It’ll be no kitten play to catch hold on him, and they know that they do.”

The emphasis was accompanied by a lowered tone, and a sidelong motion of the head towards a doorway that led out of the kitchen.

“Kitten play or cat play, it’s dicky with him; nought so sure, Joey,” said Mrs. Garth; and her cold eyes sparkled as she purred again with satisfaction.

“That’s what you’re always saying,” said Joe testily; “but it never comes to anything and never will.”

“Weel, weel, there’s nought so queer as folk,” mumbled Mrs. Garth.

Joe seemed to understand his mother’s implication.

“I’m moider’d to death,” he said, “what with yourself and them.  I’m right glad they’re going off this morning, that’s the truth.”

This declaration of Mr. Garth’s veracity was not conducive to amiability.

He looked as black as his sanguine complexion would allow.

Mrs. Garth glanced up at him.  “Why, laddie, what ails thee?  Thou’rt as crook’t as a tiphorn this morning,” she said, in a tone that was meant to coax her son out of a cantankerous temper.

“I’m like to be,” grumbled Mr. Garth.

“Why, laddie?” asked his mother, purring, now in other fashion.

“Why?” said Joe,—­“why?—­because I can never sleep at night now, no, nor work in the day neither—­that’s why.”

“Hush!” said Mrs. Garth, turning a quick eye towards the aforementioned door.  Then quietly resuming her attentions to the gorse, she added, in another tone, “That’s nowther nowt nor summat, lad.”

“It’ll take a thicker skin nor mine, mother, to hold out much longer,” said Joe huskily, but struggling to speak beneath his breath.

“Yer skin’s as thin as a cat-lug,” said Mrs. Garth in a bitter whisper.