‘Come and see for thisel; hoo's bin waitin' for thee this hawve haar.’
With a bound or two Matt cleared the stairway and stood by the side of Miriam.
There she lay, poor girl! limp and exhausted, wrapped in her old gown like a mummy, her long, wet hair, which was scattered in tresses on the pillow, throwing, in its dark frame, her face into still greater pallor.
‘Thaa munnot speak, Miriam,’ said the nurse in a low tone. ‘If thaa moves tha'll dee. Thaa can kiss her, Matt; but that's all.’
Matt kissed his wife, and baptized her with his warm tears.
‘And hesn't thaa getten a word for th' child, Matt?’ cried old Deborah, who sat with a pulpy form upon her knees before the fire. ‘It's thy lad and no mistak'; it favours no one but thisel. Look at its yure (hair), bless it!’ And old Deborah stooped over it and wept. Wept—which she had never done since her girlhood's days.
But Matt's eyes were fixed on Miriam, until she, breaking through the orders of the doctor, said:
‘Matt, do look at th' baby—it's thine, thaa knows.’
And then Matt looked at the baby. For the first time in his life he looked at a new-born baby, and at a baby to whom he was linked by ties of paternity, and his heart went out towards the little palpitating prophecy of life—so long expected, and perfected at such a price. And he took it in his arms, while old Deborah said:
‘Thaa sees, lad, God's not forgetten to be gracious. Th' promise is still to us and aars.’