flannel covering the infant face.

“Dooms! Aw’d fair forgetten th’ bairn,” said Fairbank, “Let’s ha’ a look at it bi th’ winder mi eyes are none so good as they used to be.”

Molly reluctantly placed the little one in the farmer’s outstretched arms and he bore it to the light.

“A fine child as ivver yo’ seen,” said Mrs. Schofield. “It’s gotten my Benny’s things on, leastwise them at ’aw made for him wi’ my own fingers, but it warn’t to be, for th’ poor lad nivver breathed but once. Eh! It’s a queer warld; them as could do wi childer an’ thank the Lord for ’em cannot ha’ ’em, an’ them as sudna ha’ ’em,—they come a troopin’. It passes me altogether.”

Mr. Black was casting anxious glances at the long sleeve clock, its long brass hand now marching upwards to that ninth hour of the morn that every schoolboy dreads.

“I must be going,” he said.

“Nay, rest you,” urged the widow. “Gi th’ childer a holiday—. Yer’ none yersen tha morn, an’ to be sure which on us is? I’ll ha’ some ham in th’ pan i’ a jiffy, an’ it’s Fairbanks fed, an yo know what that means.”

“Nay, nay, tempt me not, tempt me not. Those lads o’ mine e’en now are up to their eyes in mischief. There’ll be a crooked pin in the cushion of my chair, a chalk drawing of Priscilla, none too flattering, on the map of Europe, and those of them that are not playing cots and tyes for buttons will be playing ‘Follow mi leader’ over the forms and desks. It’s much if the windows arn’t broken and there wont be a button left on some of their clothes—inveterate gamblers as though they shook a box at Brighton Spa.” Mr. Black’s tone was harsh, but there was a gleam in his eye that took away the sting of his speech.

“Yo’re a good Churchman, aw know,” said Redfearn, “for yo’ do as th’ owd Book tells us—yo’ spare the rod an’ spoil the child. But we mun settle summat about th’ bairn here, an’ aw’ll be down to-neet as soon as I can get.”

Mr. Black bent over the sleeping babe nestling in its nurse’s arms. “Come early,” whispered Molly, “aw’ve summat to say to yo’ partic’ler.”

It was but a distracted mind the teacher gave that day to the budding genius of his school. He was lost in conjecture as to what Moll might have to say to him, and not less in surprise that she should have aught at all, for though that hard-featured damsel of the rasping tongue 

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