Lisbeth had been rocking herself in this way for more than five minutes, giving a low moan with every forward movement of her body, when she suddenly felt a hand placed gently on hers, and a sweet treble voice said to her, “Dear sister, the Lord has sent me to see if I can be a comfort to you.”

Lisbeth paused, in a listening attitude, without removing her apron from her face.  The voice was strange to her.  Could it be her sister’s spirit come back to her from the dead after all those years?  She trembled and dared not look.

Dinah, believing that this pause of wonder was in itself a relief for the sorrowing woman, said no more just yet, but quietly took off her bonnet, and then, motioning silence to Seth, who, on hearing her voice, had come in with a beating heart, laid one hand on the back of Lisbeth’s chair and leaned over her, that she might be aware of a friendly presence.

Slowly Lisbeth drew down her apron, and timidly she opened her dim dark eyes.  She saw nothing at first but a face—­a pure, pale face, with loving grey eyes, and it was quite unknown to her.  Her wonder increased; perhaps it was an angel.  But in the same instant Dinah had laid her hand on Lisbeth’s again, and the old woman looked down at it.  It was a much smaller hand than her own, but it was not white and delicate, for Dinah had never worn a glove in her life, and her hand bore the traces of labour from her childhood upwards.  Lisbeth looked earnestly at the hand for a moment, and then, fixing her eyes again on Dinah’s face, said, with something of restored courage, but in a tone of surprise, “Why, ye’re a workin’ woman!”

“Yes, I am Dinah Morris, and I work in the cotton-mill when I am at home.”

“Ah!” said Lisbeth slowly, still wondering; “ye comed in so light, like the shadow on the wall, an’ spoke i’ my ear, as I thought ye might be a sperrit.  Ye’ve got a’most the face o’ one as is a-sittin’ on the grave i’ Adam’s new Bible.”

“I come from the Hall Farm now.  You know Mrs. Poyser—­she’s my aunt, and she has heard of your great affliction, and is very sorry; and I’m come to see if I can be any help to you in your trouble; for I know your sons Adam and Seth, and I know you have no daughter; and when the clergyman told me how the hand of God was heavy upon you, my heart went out towards you, and I felt a command to come and be to you in the place of a daughter in this grief, if you will let me.”

“Ah!  I know who y’ are now; y’ are a Methody, like Seth; he’s tould me on you,” said Lisbeth fretfully, her overpowering sense of pain returning, now her wonder was gone.  “Ye’ll make it out as trouble’s a good thing, like he allays does.  But where’s the use o’ talkin’ to me a-that’n?  Ye canna make the smart less wi’ talkin’.  Ye’ll ne’er make me believe as it’s better for me not to ha’ my old man die in’s bed, if he must die, an’ ha’ the parson to pray by him, an’ me to sit by him, an’