H, lass, but thou'rt a bad un ter be talkin' o' turnin' a new leaf; with t' cursin', swearin' toongue, and t' drinkin' waays, dost think it's gooin' ter be so foine and eaasy ter gi'e t' all o'er in sich a moighty hoory?"
The question was addressed by a stalwart labouring man to his wife, as he stood in the doorway of his little cottage, one of a few that nestled at the foot of one of the Yorkshire hills, and from which could be seen stretching yet further below, the smoky chimneys of a large manufacturing town, in such as which England's wealth and commercial prosperity are so largely centred.
"Lad, thee moight well woonder at a wicked wench loike thy lass talkin' o' gettin' saaved; ay, and thee may sneer as mooch as thee loikes; aw mun reeap as aw ha' sowed, and aw deserve thy haard woords, and thee'll't not foind me makkin' ony raash booast; but aw mun saay ter thee 'at, He who saaved t' thief on t' cross caanst saave a big sinner loike me; ay, and keep me from t' swearin' and t' drinkin'," answered his wife, who was busily engaged in sweeping a filthy floor, preparatory to bestowing upon the blackened stones a hearty scrubbing.
"Weel, aw'll not heender thee, loike some 'ud do, if thee'll't see ter my comforts as thou hast t' mornin'," replied John Ibbetson, thinking with satisfaction of the unaccustomed luxury of a well-prepared breakfast, which had been awaiting him on his arrival from his work close by, at an early hour, that same morning. Pursuing his way thither again, he thought of the strange events that had been crowded into a short space of time. The invitation to the preaching of an evangelist in the Mission Room on the hill-side, that had been given to his wife yesterday morning; the call of a kindly-disposed neighbour, who herself regularly attended the little room, just before the evening service commenced; and then the sight he had witnessed of the neat, respectable neighbour, and his ill-clothed, dirty wife, going up the hill together. He thought of the strange scene that met his view on his return to his home after spending the evening hours as usual with a neighbour, smoking and conversing on the topics of the day, for John prided himself that his figure had never darkened the doorway of the wretched tavern that was his wife's continual resort.
"T' lass knows all about t' inside o' t' beastly plaace, and 'at's enoogh for me," he would say in reply to any invitation from its many frequenters to join them in their social evenings. He never went nearer than when compelled. Occasionally he waited at some little distance for the stumbling figure of his wife, in order to help her along the solitary path that led to their miserable dwelling. But no such task lay before him when he left his neighbour's cheerful fireside; neither was his wife lying in a state of helpless intoxication across the bed; nor was she even sitting muddled and stupified, waiting his arrival to make the cottage resound with her oaths, when he should refuse to supply her with the means for further revelry and drunken debauch. In the usually empty grate a glowing fire shed its warmth and radiance through the room; on the table there was a jug of steaming coffee, and a pile of bread and butter; and, strangest of all, on the well-swept hearth were his dilapidated slippers warmed and ready, and close beside them his chair, evidently drawn from its corner in expectation of his arrival. Half suspicious of some new design against his peace, he looked dubiously around, and only ventured to say: "Thou'rt home early, lass, t' neaght?"
"Ay, lad, thou sayest it; and more's t' shame, 'at aw've ever been aught but hoom ter greeat thee; aw've gotten good oop at yond meetin' hoose t' neaght, and aw've proomised t' Looard and t' fouks 'at aw'll gie oop t' alehoose and t' drink; aw've been a bad woife ter thee, and a weecked mother ter t' childer; but t' Looard in mercy ha' forgi'en me all my seens; and aw'm 'at happy aw could daance for t' joy. Dost heear me, lad?" she continued, as her husband stared in dumbfounded fashion at her.
"Thee may weel stare thee een oot wi' wonner, for aw waalked streeaght ter t' tap yonder, and thinkin' ter mysen, now t' Looard ha' weshed my blaack heaart t' least aw could do 'ud be t' wesh my blaack faace, aw didn't gi'e o'er rubbin' and scrubbin' till aw left thee little enoogh sooap t' wesh thysen coom t' mornin', and t' floor 'lt ha' its turn t' morrow."
"Lass, if 'at thee's been saayin' be true, then aw mun saay t' Looard, aboot whom thee taalks so glib, 'll ha' His haands full to keeap thee oot o' meescheef for a while; it's a seaght more nor aw could do," said John, at length finding his voice.
"Thou'rt reaght enoogh, lad; but His hands are aye poowerful, so aw'm toold. Maybe, thee 'ud goo ter t' chapel wi' me to-morrow neaght, and hear t' preachin'; it's wonnerful and foine," and then Jane handed a steaming cup of coffee to her husband, and waited his reply with some trepidation, for, in her simple soul, there had already sprung up the desire, sure proof of the reality of the Spirit's work in any heart that another should partake of the new life that had come to her.
"See thee, lass; thee'lt just stop 'at koind o' taalk: aw'll not goo to yond plaace coom a greeat while; thee'lt have ter show t' work's reeal wi' thee, afore thee sees me walkin' oop t' hill aside o' thee; aw've no drinkin', swearin' waays ter gi'e o'er, thee knows," said John.