‘A could wish as a’d learned write-of-hand,’ said she; ’for a’ve that for to tell Christopher as might set his mind at ease.  But yo’ see, if a wrote him a letter he couldn’t read it; so a just comfort mysel’ wi’ thinkin’ nobody need learn writin’ unless they’n got friends as can read.  But a reckon he’d ha’ been glad to hear as a’ve getten a lodger.’  Here she nodded her head in the direction of the door opening out of the house-place into the ‘lean-to’, which Sylvia had observed on drawing near the cottage, and the recollection of the mention of which by Kester had enabled her to identify widow Dobson’s dwelling.  ‘He’s a-bed yonder,’ the latter continued, dropping her voice.  ‘He’s a queer-lookin’ tyke, but a don’t think as he’s a bad un.’

‘When did he come?’ said Sylvia, remembering Kester’s account of his sister’s character, and feeling as though it behoved her, as Kester’s confidante on this head, to give cautious and prudent advice.

‘Eh! a matter of a s’ennight ago.  A’m noane good at mindin’ time; he’s paid me his rent twice, but then he were keen to pay aforehand.  He’d comed in one night, an’ sate him down afore he could speak, he were so done up; he’d been on tramp this many a day, a reckon.  “Can yo’ give me a bed?” says he, panting like, after a bit.  “A chap as a met near here says as yo’ve a lodging for t’ let.”  “Ay,” says a, “a ha’ that; but yo’ mun pay me a shilling a week for ’t.”  Then my mind misgive me, for a thought he hadn’t a shilling i’ t’ world, an’ yet if he hadn’t, a should just ha’ gi’en him t’ bed a’ t’ same:  a’m not one as can turn a dog out if he comes t’ me wearied o’ his life.  So he outs wi’ a shillin’, an’ lays it down on t’ table, ’bout a word.  “A’ll not trouble yo’ long,” says he.  “A’m one as is best out o’ t’ world,” he says.  Then a thought as a’d been a bit hard upon him.  An’ says I, “A’m a widow-woman, and one as has getten but few friends:”  for yo’ see a were low about our Christopher’s goin’ away north; “so a’m forced-like to speak hard to folk; but a’ve made mysel’ some stirabout for my supper; and if yo’d like t’ share an’ share about wi’ me, it’s but puttin’ a sup more watter to ’t, and God’s blessing ’ll be on ’t, just as same as if ‘t were meal.”  So he ups wi’ his hand afore his e’en, and says not a word.  At last he says, “Missus,” says he, “can God’s blessing be shared by a sinner—­one o’ t’ devil’s children?” says he.  “For the Scriptur’ says he’s t’ father o’ lies.”  So a were puzzled-like; an’ at length a says, “Thou mun ask t’ parson that; a’m but a poor faint-hearted widow-woman; but a’ve allays had God’s blessing somehow, now a bethink me, an’ a’ll share it wi’ thee as far as my will goes.”  So he raxes his hand across t’ table, an’ mutters summat, as he grips mine.  A thought it were Scriptur’ as he said, but a’d needed a’ my strength just then for t’ lift t’ pot off t’ fire—­it were t’ first vittle a’d tasted sin’ morn, for t’ famine comes down like stones on t’ head o’ us poor