all thy life, as if thee wast a man cut out o' timber? An' what wut do when thy mother's gone, an' nobody to take care on thee as thee gett'st a bit o' victual comfortable i' the mornin'?"
"What hast got i' thy mind, mother?" said Adam, vexed at this whimpering. "I canna see what thee't diiving at. Is there anything I could do for thee as I don't do?"
"Ay, an' that there is. Thee might'st do so as I should ha' somebody wi' me to comfort me a bit, an' wait on me when I'm bad, an' be good to me."
"Well, mother, whose fault is it there isna some tidy body i' th' house t' help thee? It isna by my wish as thee hast a stroke o' work to do. We can afford it—I've told thee often enough. It 'ud be a deal better for us."
"Eh, what's th' use o' talkin' o' tidy bodies, when thee mean'st one o' th' wenches out o' th' village, or somebody from Treddles'on as I ne'er set eyes on i' my life? I'd sooner make a shift an' get into my own coffin afore I die, nor ha' them folks to put me in."
Adam was silent, and tried to go on reading. That was the utmost severity he could show towards his mother on a Sunday morning. But Lisbeth had
