be bruised—­though, for the matter o’ that, thy poor feyther war just such another.  But ye’ve got the same look too” (here Lisbeth turned to Dinah).  “I reckon it’s wi’ bein’ a Methody.  Not as I’m a-findin’ faut wi’ ye for’t, for ye’ve no call to be frettin’, an’ somehow ye looken sorry too.  Eh!  Well, if the Methodies are fond o’ trouble, they’re like to thrive:  it’s a pity they canna ha’t all, an’ take it away from them as donna like it.  I could ha’ gi’en ’em plenty; for when I’d gotten my old man I war worreted from morn till night; and now he’s gone, I’d be glad for the worst o’er again.”

“Yes,” said Dinah, careful not to oppose any feeling of Lisbeth’s, for her reliance, in her smallest words and deeds, on a divine guidance, always issued in that finest woman’s tact which proceeds from acute and ready sympathy; “yes, I remember too, when my dear aunt died, I longed for the sound of her bad cough in the nights, instead of the silence that came when she was gone.  But now, dear friend, drink this other cup of tea and eat a little more.”

“What!” said Lisbeth, taking the cup and speaking in a less querulous tone, “had ye got no feyther and mother, then, as ye war so sorry about your aunt?”

“No, I never knew a father or mother; my aunt brought me up from a baby.  She had no children, for she was never married and she brought me up as tenderly as if I’d been her own child.”

“Eh, she’d fine work wi’ ye, I’ll warrant, bringin’ ye up from a babby, an’ her a lone woman—­it’s ill bringin’ up a cade lamb.  But I daresay ye warna franzy, for ye look as if ye’d ne’er been angered i’ your life.  But what did ye do when your aunt died, an’ why didna ye come to live in this country, bein’ as Mrs. Poyser’s your aunt too?”

Dinah, seeing that Lisbeth’s attention was attracted, told her the story of her early life—­how she had been brought up to work hard, and what sort of place Snowfield was, and how many people had a hard life there—­all the details that she thought likely to interest Lisbeth.  The old woman listened, and forgot to be fretful, unconsciously subject to the soothing influence of Dinah’s face and voice.  After a while she was persuaded to let the kitchen be made tidy; for Dinah was bent on this, believing that the sense of order and quietude around her would help in disposing Lisbeth to join in the prayer she longed to pour forth at her side.  Seth, meanwhile, went out to chop wood, for he surmised that Dinah would like to be left alone with his mother.

Lisbeth sat watching her as she moved about in her still quick way, and said at last, “Ye’ve got a notion o’ cleanin’ up.  I wouldna mind ha’in ye for a daughter, for ye wouldna spend the lad’s wage i’ fine clothes an’ waste.  Ye’re not like the lasses o’ this countryside.  I reckon folks is different at Snowfield from what they are here.”

“They have a different sort of life, many of ’em,” said Dinah; “they work at different things—­some in the mill, and many in the mines, in the villages round about.  But the heart of man is the same everywhere, and there are the children of this world and the children of light there as well as elsewhere.  But we’ve many more Methodists there than in this country.”