“Go to un,” she said, leaping up; “go to Clem, an’ tell un, in his ear, that I knaw.  It’ll reach him if you whisper it.  His soul ban’t so very far aways yet.  Tell un I knaw, tu—­you an’ me.  He’d glory that I knawed.  An’ pray henceforrard, as I shall, for a bwoy.  Ax God for a bwoy—­ax wi’out ceasin’ for a son full o’ Clem.  Our sorrows might win to the Everlasting Ear this wance.  But, for Christ’s sake, ax like wan who has a right to, not fawning an’ humble.”

The woman was transfigured as the significance of this news filled her mind.  She wept before a splendid possibility.  It fired her eyes and straightened her shrivelled stature.  For a while her frantic utterances almost inspired Chris with the shadow of similar emotions; but another side of the picture knew no dawn.  This the widow ignored—­indeed it had not entered her head since her first comment on the confession.  Now, however, the girl reminded her,—­

“You forget a little what this must be to me, mother.”

“Light in darkness.”

“I hadn’t thought that; an the gert world won’t pity me, as you did when I first told you.”

“You ban’t feared o’ the world, be you?  The world forgot un.  ’T was your awn word.  What’s the world to you, knawin’ what you knaw?  Do ’e want to be treated soft by what was allus hell-hard to him?  Four-and-thirty short years he lived, then the world beginned to ope its eyes to his paarts, an’ awnly then—­tu late, when the thread of his days was spun.  What’s the world to you and why should you care for its word, Chris Blanchard?”

“Because I am Chris Blanchard,” she said.  “I was gwaine to kill myself, but thought to see his dear face wance more before I done it.  Now—­”

“Kill yourself!  God’s mercy!  ’T will be killing Clem again if you do!  You caan’t; you wouldn’t dare; theer’s black damnation in it an’ flat murder now.  Hear me, for Christ’s sake, if that’s the awful thought in you:  you’m God’s chosen tool in this—­chosen to suffer an’ bring a bwoy in the world—­Clem’s bwoy.  Doan’t you see how’t is?  ‘Kill yourself’!  How can ’e dream it?  You’ve got to bring a bwoy, I tell ’e, to keep us from both gwaine stark mad.  ’T was foreordained he should leave his holy likeness.  God’s truth!  You should be proud ‘stead o’ fearful—­such a man as he was.  Hold your head high an’ pray when none’s lookin’, pray through every wakin’ hour an’ watch yourself as you’d watch the case of a golden jewel.  What wise brain will think hard of you for followin’ the chosen path?  What odds if a babe’s got ringless under the stars or in a lawful four-post bed?  Who married Adam an’ Eve?  You was the wife of un ‘cordin’ to the first plan o’ the livin’ God; an’ if He changed His lofty mind when’t was tu late, blame doan’t fall on you or the dead.  Think of a baaby—­his baaby—­under your breast!  Think of meetin’ him in time to come, wi’ another soul got in sheer love!  Better to faace the people an’ let the bairn