Miriam was walking at his side, her dark eyes seeking the ground, and half hidden by the droop of their long-fringed lids.  Indeed, she was too timid to flash their open searching light, as was her wont, into the face of Matt; and when she did look at him, as at times she was forced to, the glance was furtive and the gaze unsteady.

‘Come, mi bonny brid (bird),’ said her husband, betraying in his voice a deeper concern, ’tell thi owd mon what’s up wi thee.  I’ve ne’er sin thee look like this afore.  Durnd look on th’ grass so mich.  Lift that little yed (head) o’ thine.  Thaa’s no need to be ashamed o’ showing thi face—­there’s noan so mony at’s better lookin’—­leastways, I’ve sin noan.’

Miriam was silent; but as Matt’s hand stole gently into hers, and she felt the warm touch of his grasp, her heart leapt, and its pent-up burden found outlet in a sob.  Then he stayed his steps, and looked at her, as a traveller would pause and look in wonderment at the sudden portent in the heavens of a coming storm, and putting his hand beneath the little drooping chin, he raised the pretty face to find it wet with tears.

’Nay! nay! lass, thaa knows I conrot ston salt watter, when it’s i’ a woman’s een.

But Miriam’s tears fell all the faster

‘I’ll tell yo’ what it is, owd lass.  I shornd hev to leave yo’ agen,’ and his arm stole round the little neck, and he drew the sorrowful face to his own, and kissed it.  ’But tell yor owd mon what’s up wi yo’.’

‘Ne’er mind naa, Matt; I’ll—­tell—­thee—­sometime,’ sobbed the wife.

‘But I mun know naa, lass, or there’ll be th’ hangments to play.  I’ll be bun those hens o’ Whittam’s hes been rootin’ up thi flaars in th’ garden.  By gum! if they hev, I’ll oather neck ’em, or mak’ him pay for th’ lumber (mischief).’

‘Nowe, lad—­thaa’rt—­mista’en—­Whittam’s hens hesn’t bin i’ th’ garden sin’ thaa towd him abaat ’em last.’

‘Then mi mother’s bin botherin’ thee agen,’ said Matt, in a sharp tone, as though he had at last hit upon the secret of his wife’s sorrow.

‘Wrang once more,’ replied Miriam, with a light in her eye; and then, looking up at her husband with a gleam, she said:  ’I durnd think as thi mother’ll bother me mich more, lad.’

‘Surely th’ old lass isn’t deead!’ he cried in startled tones.  And then, recollecting her treatment of Miriam, he continued:  ’But I needn’t be afeard o’ that, for thaa’ll never cry when th’ old girl geets to heaven.  Will yo’, mi bonnie un?’

‘Shame on thee, Matt,’ said Miriam, smiling through her tears.

’Bless thee for that smile, lass.  Thaa looks more thisel naa.  There’s naught like sunleet when it’s in a woman’s face.’

‘Thaa means eyeleet,’ Miriam replied, with a gleam of returning mirth.

‘Ony kind o’ leet, so long as it’s love-leet and joy-leet, and i’ thi face, an o’.  But thaa’s noan towd me what made thee so feeard (timid) when aw met thee.’