The poor mother stood at bay—­at cruel bay.  She had used the mightiest weapon upon which she could lay her hand, and it had seemed to shiver in the conflict.  But love’s armoury is not easily depleted, and love’s spirit is quick to return to the charge.  There was still left to her the warmth of a bosom in which long years before Amanda had gently stirred, and from which she had drawn her first currents of life; and once more the mother clasped her girl, and pressed her lips on the sin-stained face.

‘Durnd kiss me, mother,’ cried the affrighted girl, stepping back; ‘durnd kiss me.  Thaa munnot dirty thy lips wi’ touchin’ mine.  If thaa knew all, thaa’d spurn me more like.’

‘’Manda,’ replied the woman, in the desperation of her love, ’I’ll kiss thee if thaa kills me for’t.  I connot help it; thaa’rt mine.’

‘I wor once, I wor once, but nod now.’

‘Yi! lass, but thaa art.  Thaa wor mine afore th’ devil geet howd on thee, and thaa’s bin mine all th’ time he’s bed thee, and now he’s done wi’ thee, I mean to keep thee all to mysel.’

And afresh the mother bathed the still beautiful face of Amanda with her tears.

But Amanda was firm.  Old as her mother was, she knew that mother’s innocence, and shrank from the thought that one so pure, so womanly, should hang on those lips so sorely blistered by the breath of sin; and, once more stretching out her arm, she said: 

‘Durnd touch me, mother—­durnd!’

‘’Manda,’ cried the mother, defiantly and grandly, all the passion of maternity rising in her heart, ’’Manda, thaa cornd unmother me.  I carried thee and suckled thee and taught thee thi prayers in that cheer, and doesn’d ta think as Him we co’d “Aar Faither” is aar Faither still?’

‘Happen He’s yours, mother; but He’s noan o’ mine.’

’Well, ’Manda, if thaa’rt noan His child, thaa’rt mine, and naught shall come ‘tween me and thee.’

‘And dun yo’ mean to say that yo’ love me as mich naa, mother, as when aw wor a little un?’ asked the girl, her steely eyes moistening, and the firm line of her drawn mouth tremulous with rising emotion.

‘Yi, lass, and a thaasand times more.  Thaa wants more luv’ naa nor then—­doesn’t ta?  And hoo’s a poor mother as connot give more when more’s wanted.  I’m like th’ owd well up th’ hill yonder—­th’ bigger th’ druft (drought) th’ stronger th’ flow.  Thi mother’s heart’s noan dry, lass, tho’ thi thirst’s gone; and I’ll luv’ thee though thaa splashes mi luv’ back in mi face, and spills it on th’ graand.’

And a third time the woman fell on the girl’s neck, and kissed her flesh into flame with the passion of her caress.

‘Durnd, mother! durnd!’ said Amanda.  ‘Blame me, if yo’ like; curse me, if yo’ like.  But luv’ I connot ston’; it drives me mad.’