She and he stood by the corpse.

‘Her last words to Mary were, “Keep my father fro’ drink."’

‘It canna hurt her now,’ muttered he.  ‘Nought can hurt her now.’  Then, raising his voice to a wailing cry, he went on:  ’We may quarrel and fall out—­we may make peace and be friends—­we may clem to skin and bone—­and nought o’ all our griefs will ever touch her more.  Hoo’s had her portion on ’em.  What wi’ hard work first, and sickness at last, hoo’s led the life of a dog.  And to die without knowing one good piece o’ rejoicing in all her days!  Nay, wench, whatever hoo said, hoo can know nought about it now, and I mun ha’ a sup o’ drink just to steady me again sorrow.’

‘No,’ said Margaret, softening with his softened manner.  ’You shall not.  If her life has been what you say, at any rate she did not fear death as some do.  Oh, you should have heard her speak of the life to come—­the life hidden with God, that she is now gone to.’

He shook his head, glancing sideways up at Margaret as he did so.  His pale, haggard face struck her painfully.

‘You are sorely tired.  Where have you been all day—­not at work?’

‘Not at work, sure enough,’ said he, with a short, grim laugh.  ’Not at what you call work.  I were at the Committee, till I were sickened out wi’ trying to make fools hear reason.  I were fetched to Boucher’s wife afore seven this morning.  She’s bed-fast, but she were raving and raging to know where her dunder-headed brute of a chap was, as if I’d to keep him—­as if he were fit to be ruled by me.  The d—­d fool, who has put his foot in all our plans!  And I’ve walked my feet sore wi’ going about for to see men who wouldn’t be seen, now the law is raised again us.  And I were sore-hearted, too, which is worse than sore-footed; and if I did see a friend who ossed to treat me, I never knew hoo lay a-dying here.  Bess, lass, thou’d believe me, thou wouldst—­wouldstn’t thou?’ turning to the poor dumb form with wild appeal.

‘I am sure,’ said Margaret, ’I am sure you did not know:  it was quite sudden.  But now, you see, it would be different; you do know; you do see her lying there; you hear what she said with her last breath.  You will not go?’

No answer.  In fact, where was he to look for comfort?

‘Come home with me,’ said she at last, with a bold venture, half trembling at her own proposal as she made it.  ’At least you shall have some comfortable food, which I’m sure you need.’

‘Yo’r father’s a parson?’ asked he, with a sudden turn in his ideas.

‘He was,’ said Margaret, shortly.

‘I’ll go and take a dish o’ tea with him, since yo’ve asked me.  I’ve many a thing I often wished to say to a parson, and I’m not particular as to whether he’s preaching now, or not.’

Margaret was perplexed; his drinking tea with her father, who would be totally unprepared for his visitor—­her mother so ill—­seemed utterly out of the question; and yet if she drew back now, it would be worse than ever—­sure to drive him to the gin-shop.  She thought that if she could only get him to their own house, it was so great a step gained that she would trust to the chapter ofaccidents for the next.