’Why, Deborah, thaa’rt wur nor a potsherd.  Thaa knows thi Bible:  “Let the potsherds strive wi’ th’ potsherds; but woe to th’ mon that strives wi’ his Maker."’

‘Well, I’m baan to wrostle wi’ Him, an’ if He flings me aw shannot ax yo’ to pick me up, noather.’

‘Thaa mun say, “Thy will be done,” Deborah.’

‘Nowe! never to th’ deeath o’ yon chilt.’

‘Doesto say thaa willn’t?’

‘Yi, Amos, aw do!’

Then Amos turned away, groaning in spirit at the rebellious hearts of the children of men.

The child came safely through the convulsions, however, and as the sharp edges of the little teeth gleamed through the gums, the old woman would rub her finger over them until she felt the smart, and with tearful eye thank God for the gift He had spared, as well as for the gift He had granted—­little dreaming that as she nursed her treasure she nursed also her mentor—­one who, though in the feebleness of infancy, was drawing her back to a long-lost childhood, and bidding return to her the days of youth.

The old grandmother now became the light of Matt and Miriam’s home.  Instead of paying the occasional visit at her house, she was ever at theirs—­indeed, she could not rest away from the child.  Miriam long since had ceased to fear her.  ‘The little un,’ as she used to tell Matt, ‘had drawed th’ owd woman’s teeth;’ to which Matt used to reply, ’Naa, lass, the teeth’s there, but hoo’s gi’en o’er bitin’.’

Not infrequently, both son and daughter would rally her on the many indulgences she granted the child, and Matt often told her that what ‘he used to ged licked for, th’ chilt geet kissed for.’  Mr. Penrose, too, ventured to discuss theology with Matt in the old woman’s presence, and she no longer eyed him with angry fire as he discoursed from the Rehoboth pulpit on the larger hope.  As for Amos Entwistle, he continued to prophesy the death of the child, and when it still lived and throve, in spite of his prediction, he contented himself by saying that ’Deborah hed turned the Owd Testament blessin’ into a curse.’

* * * * *

On Sunday afternoons Matt and Miriam would leave the boy at his grandmother’s while they went to the service at Rehoboth.  Then it was the old woman took down the family Bible, and showed to him the plates representative of the marvels of old.  These began to work on the child’s imagination; and once, when the book lay open at Revelation, he fastened his little eyes on a hideous representation of the bottomless pit.

‘What’s that, gronny?’ said he, pointing to the picture.

‘That, mi lad, is th’ hoile where all th’ bad fo’k go.’

‘Who dug it?  Did owd Joseph, gronny?’

’Nowe, lad; owd Joseph nobbud digs hoiles for fo’k’s bodies.  That hoile is fer their souls.’

‘What’s them, gronny?’

’Nay, lad!  A connot tell thee reet—­but it’s summat abaat us as we carry wi’ us—­summat, thaa knows, that never dees.’