‘Ay, that’s aboot it,’ he answered.

‘This’ll na be truth.  It’ll be jest a piece o’ wanton trickery!’ she cried.

‘Nay, but’t is truth,’ he answered deliberately.

‘Ye will na swear t’ it?’ she persisted.

‘I see na necessity for swearin’.’

‘Then ye canna swear t’ it,’ she burst out triumphantly.

He paused an instant; then said quietly: 

‘Ay, but I’ll swear t’ it easy enough.  Fetch t’ Book.’

She lifted the heavy, tattered Bible from the chimney-piece, and placed it before him on the table.  He laid his lumpish fist on it.

‘Say,’ she continued with a tense tremulousness, ‘say, I swear t’ ye, mother, that ‘t is t’ truth, t’ whole truth, and noat but t’ truth, s’help me God.’

‘I swear t’ ye, mother, it’s truth, t’ whole truth, and nothin’ but t’ truth, s’help me God,’ he repeated after her.

‘Kiss t’ Book,’ she ordered.

He lifted the Bible to his lips.  As he replaced it on the table, he burst out into a short laugh: 

‘Be ye satisfied noo?’

She went back to the chimney corner without a word.  The logs on the hearth hissed and crackled.  Outside, amid the blackness the wind was rising, hooting through the firs, and past the windows.

After a long while he roused himself, and drawing his pipe from his pocket almost steadily, proceeded leisurely to pare in the palm of his hand a lump of black tobacco.

‘We’ll be asked in church Sunday,’ he remarked bluntly.

She made no answer.

He looked across at her.

Her mouth was drawn tight at the corners:  her face wore a queer, rigid aspect.  She looked, he thought, like a figure of stone.

‘Ye’re not feeling poorly, are ye, mother?’ he asked.

She shook her head grimly:  then, hobbling out into the room, began to speak in a shrill, tuneless voice.

‘Ye talked at one time o’ takin’ a farm over Scarsdale way.  But ye’d best stop here.  I’ll no hinder ye.  Ye can have t’ large bedroom in t’ front, and I’ll move ower to what used to be my brother Jake’s room.  Ye knaw I’ve never had no opinion of t’ girl, but I’ll do what’s right by her, ef I break my sperrit in t’ doin’ on’t.  I’ll mak’ t’ girl welcome here:  I’ll stand by her proper-like:  mebbe I’ll finish by findin’ soom good in her.  But from this day forward, Tony, ye’re na son o’ mine.  Ye’ve dishonoured yeself:  ye’ve laid a trap for me—­ay, laid a trap, that’s t’ word.  Ye’ve brought shame and bitterness on yer ould mother in her ould age.  Ye’ve made me despise t’ varra sect o’ ye.  Ye can stop on here, but ye shall niver touch a penny of my money; every shillin’ of ’t shall go t’ yer child, or to your child’s children.  Ay,’ she went on, raising her voice, ’ay, ye’ve got yer way at last, and mebbe ye reckon ye’ve chosen a mighty smart way.  But time ’ull coom when ye’ll regret this day, when ye eat oot