“Ah,” said Adam, “I remember father telling me when I was a little lad that he made up his mind if ever he moved it should be south’ard.  But I’m not so sure about it.  Bartle Massey says—­and he knows the South—­as the northern men are a finer breed than the southern, harder-headed and stronger-bodied, and a deal taller.  And then he says in some o’ those counties it’s as flat as the back o’ your hand, and you can see nothing of a distance without climbing up the highest trees.  I couldn’t abide that.  I like to go to work by a road that’ll take me up a bit of a hill, and see the fields for miles round me, and a bridge, or a town, or a bit of a steeple here and there.  It makes you feel the world’s a big place, and there’s other men working in it with their heads and hands besides yourself.”

“I like th’ hills best,” said Seth, “when the clouds are over your head and you see the sun shining ever so far off, over the Loamford way, as I’ve often done o’ late, on the stormy days.  It seems to me as if that was heaven where there’s always joy and sunshine, though this life’s dark and cloudy.”

“Oh, I love the Stonyshire side,” said Dinah; “I shouldn’t like to set my face towards the countries where they’re rich in corn and cattle, and the ground so level and easy to tread; and to turn my back on the hills where the poor people have to live such a hard life and the men spend their days in the mines away from the sunlight.  It’s very blessed on a bleak cold day, when the sky is hanging dark over the hill, to feel the love of God in one’s soul, and carry it to the lonely, bare, stone houses, where there’s nothing else to give comfort.”

“Eh!” said Lisbeth, “that’s very well for ye to talk, as looks welly like the snowdrop-flowers as ha’ lived for days an’ days when I’n gethered ’em, wi’ nothin’ but a drop o’ water an’ a peep o’ daylight; but th’ hungry foulks had better leave th’ hungry country.  It makes less mouths for the scant cake.  But,” she went on, looking at Adam, “donna thee talk o’ goin’ south’ard or north’ard, an’ leavin’ thy feyther and mother i’ the churchyard, an’ goin’ to a country as they know nothin’ on.  I’ll ne’er rest i’ my grave if I donna see thee i’ the churchyard of a Sunday.”

“Donna fear, mother,” said Adam.  “If I hadna made up my mind not to go, I should ha’ been gone before now.”

He had finished his breakfast now, and rose as he was speaking.

“What art goin’ to do?” asked Lisbeth.  “Set about thy feyther’s coffin?”

“No, mother,” said Adam; “we’re going to take the wood to the village and have it made there.”

“Nay, my lad, nay,” Lisbeth burst out in an eager, wailing tone; “thee wotna let nobody make thy feyther’s coffin but thysen?  Who’d make it so well?  An’ him as know’d what good work war, an’s got a son as is the head o’ the village an’ all Treddles’on too, for cleverness.”

“Very well, mother, if that’s thy wish, I’ll make the coffin at home; but I thought thee wouldstna like to hear the work going on.”