“It is only Doncaster, Hibblethwaite,” I returned, as I sprang over the low stone wall to join him. “What is the matter, old fellow? I thought I heard you groan just now.”
“Yo' mought ha' done, Mester,” he answered heavily. “Happen tha did. I dunnot know mysen. Nowts th' matter though, as I knows on, on'y I'm a bit out o' soarts.”
He turned his head aside slightly and began to pull at the blades of grass on the mound, and all at once I saw that his hand was trembling nervously.
It was almost three minutes before he spoke again.
“That un belongs to me,” he said suddenly at last, pointing to a longer mound at his feet. “An' this little un,” signifying with an indescribable gesture the small one upon which he sat.
“Poor fellow,” I said, “I see now.”
“A little lad o' mine,” he said, slowly and tremulously. “A little lad o' mine an'—an' his mother.'
“What!” I exclaimed, “I never knew that you were a married man, Tim.”
He dropped his head upon his hand again, still pulling nervously at the grass with the other.
“Th' law says I beant, Mester,” he answered in a painful, strained fashion. “I conna tell mysen what God-a'-moighty 'ud say about it.”