so I gave him my pencil which pushed in and out, but which pushes in and out no more.
The sight of the stewpot affected the mother afresh. She wept again, crying:
“An’ I niver thought as ’ow it were aught but a snared un; as if I should set ’im on ter thieve their old doe; an’ tough it was an’ all; an’ ’im a thief, an me called all the names they could lay their tongues to: an’ then in my bit of a pantry, takin’ the very pots out: that stewpot as I brought all the way from Nottingham, an’ I’ve ’ad it afore our Minnie wor born——”
The baby, the little baby, then began to cry. The mother got up suddenly, and took it.
“Oh, come then, come then my pet. Why, why cos they shanna, no they shanna. Yes, he’s his mother’s least little lad, he is, a little un. Hush then, there, there—what’s a matter, my little?”
She hushed the baby, and herself. At length she asked:
“ ’As th’ p’liceman gone as well?”
“Yes—it’s all right,” I said.
She sighed deeply, and her look of weariness was painful to see.
“How old is your eldest?” I asked.
“Fanny—she’s fourteen. She’s out service at Websters. Then Jim, as is thirteen next month—let’s see, yes, it is next month—he’s gone to Flints—farming. They can’t do much—an’ I shan’t let ’em go into th’ pit, if I can help it. My husband always used to say they should never go in th’ pit.”
“They can’t do much for you.”
“They dun what they can. But it’s a hard job, it
