To the robbed mother came Chris, silent as a ghost.  Only the old woman’s eyes moved as the girl entered, fell down by the bier, and buried her face in the pillow that supported her lover’s head.  Thus, in profound silence, both remained awhile, until Chris lifted herself and looked in the dead face and almost started to see the strange content stamped on it.

Then Mrs. Hicks began to speak in a high-pitched voice which broke now and again as her bosom heaved after past tears.

“The awnly son of his mother, an’ she a widow wummon; an’ theer ’s no Christ now to work for the love of the poor.  I be shattered wi’ many groans an’ tears, Chris Blanchard, same as you be.  You knawed him—­awnly you an’ me; but you ‘m young yet, an’ memory’s so weak in young brains that you’ll outlive it all an’ forget.”

“Never, never, mother!  Theer ’s no more life for me—­not here.  He’s callin’ to me—­callin’ an’ callin’ from yonder.”

“You’ll outlive an’ forget,” repeated the other.  “I cannot, bein’ as I am.  An’, mind this, when you pray to Heaven, ax for gold an’ diamonds, ax for houses an’ lands, ax for the fat of the airth; an’ ax loud.  No harm in axin’.  Awnly doan’t pitch your prayers tu dirt low, for ban’t the hardness of a thing stops God.  You ’m as likely or onlikely to get a big answer as a little.  See the blessin’ flowin’ in streams for some folks!  They do live braave an’ happy, with gude health, an’ gude wives, an’ money, an’ the fruits of the land; they do get butivul childer, as graws up like the corners of the temple; an’ when they come to die, they shut their eyes ‘pon kind faaces an’ lie in lead an’ oak under polished marble.  All that be theers; an’ what was his—­my son’s?”

“God forgot him,” sobbed Chris, “an’ the world forgot him—­all but you an’ me.”

The old woman shifted her hands wearily.

“Theer’s a mort for God to bear in mind, but ‘t is hard, here an’ there, wheer He slips awver some lowly party an’ misses a humble whisper.  Clamour if you want to be heard; doan’t go with bated breath same as I done.  ‘T was awnly a li’l thing I axed, an’ axed it twice a day on my knees, ever since my man died twenty-three year agone.  An’ often as not thrice Sundays, so you may count up the number of times I axed if you mind to.  Awnly a li’l rubbishy thing you might have thought:  just to bring his fair share o’ prosperity to Clem an’ keep my bones out the poorhouse at the end.  But my bwoy ’s brawk his neck by a cruel death, an’ I must wear the blue cotton.”

“No, no, mother.”

“Ess.  Not that it looks so hard as it did.  This makes it easy—­” and she put her hand on her son’s forehead and left it there a moment.

Presently she continued: 

“I axed Clem to turn the bee-butts at my sister’s passing—­Mrs. Lezzard.  But he wouldn’t; an’ now they’ll be turned for him.  Wise though the man was, he set no store on the dark, hidden meaning of honey-bees at times of death.  Now the creatures be masterless, same as you an’ me; an’ they’ll knaw it; an’ you’ll see many an’ many a-murmuring on his graave ’fore the grass graws green theer; for they see more ’n what we can.”