measure, and wiped his lips with the back of his hand—a good pint had disappeared, and you might have heard it gurgling down his throat like water down a bent and choked drain. He nodded his reply: then gruffly:

“To-morrow, three o’clock. Th’ hearse an’ coaches here at two.”

“An’ now what’s to be done about th’ little ’un?” queried the farmer. “I’ve thowt an’ thowt, an’ better thowt. An’ aw’m nooan a bit nearer. Aw thowt mebbe yo’ could tak’ care on it, till its own folk wer’ found. What ses ta, Betty?”

But Mrs. Schofield shook her head. “It wouldn’t do Fairbanks, it ’ud nivver do. Aw met manage if Moll wor allus here to look after it an ’oo could give a hand i’ th’ taproom o’ Saturday neets and Sundays. But wi’ her, nivver to be depended on five minutes together, knocked up i’ th’ middle o’ th’ neet when least yo’ look for it, an’ nivver knowin’ when oo’ll be back or wheer oo’ll be next more like a gipsy or willy-wisp nor a regular lodger, an’ me a sound sleeper—yo’ can see for yorsen it ’ud nivver act.”

“Why dunno yo’ offer to tak’ him to Fairbanks?” Molly could not forbear asking, with some malice. “One more or less ’ll mak’ no differ to yo’, an’ th’ lad ’ud sooin be o’ use on th’ farm.”

“Not for a thousand golden guineas,” exclaimed Redfearn. “Our Mary’s th’ best o’ women; but if ’oo has a fault it’s jalousin’ about every bye-blow that’s born i’th’ village. There’s her an’ your Priscilla, schoolmaster, bin collogin’ o’er this job already, bi what aw can speer, an Mary looked sour enough to turn a field o’ red cabbage into pickles, when aw started fro’ Fairbanks to-neet. Didn’t ’oo, Aleck?” concluded Redfearn, with his usual appeal to his faithful henchman.

“Oo did that,” said Aleck, starting out of a deep reverie.

“Yo’ might lay it to me,” at last Aleck said, “awst nooan mind, an’ aw say Pinder ’d get used to it in a bit.”

“What could yo’ do wi’ a child i’ th’ hut, you numskull?” laughed the farmer.

“Well, settle it yo’r own gate—it’s all a price to me. Best chuck it i’ th’ cut an’ ha’ done wi’ it.”

If a look could have blasted man, as lightning blasts the oak, never more would Aleck have herded flock on the lofty heights and stretching moors that edge Diggle valley and its rippling brook.

“Out on yo’, Aleck no-name,” cried Molly, springing hotly to her feet. “Eh! But if aw 

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