I.
THE UTTERMOST FARTHING.
‘Well! yo' and Jim may do as yo' like—but I'm noan baan to turn aat o' th' owd Fold till I'm ta'en aat feet fermost.’
‘Nay, gronny—don't tak' on so. Yo' cornd ston' agen law as haa it be; a writ is a writ, and if yo' hevn't got brass it's no use feightin'.’
‘A, lass! I'm feared thaa's reet—naa-a-days them as has most gets most, and their own way i' th' bargain.’
They were sitting over the hearth, the elder woman gazing wearily into the dying embers of the fire, and nursing her chin on her hand; while the younger, with her clog upon the rocker of a deal cradle, gave to that ark of infancy the gentle and monotonous movement which from time immemorial has soothed the restlessness of child-life.
It was a pitiless night—a night the superstitious might well associate with the portent of the downfall of the house around which the storm seemed to rage. The rain beat upon the windows, and the wind with its invisible arms clasped the old farmstead as if to wrench it from its foundations and scatter broadcast its gray stones over the wild moor on the fringe of which it stood. Neither of the women, however, heeded the sweep of the tempest, for their bosoms were racked by storms other than those of the elements. With eyes heavy from pent-up floods of tears, and hearts dark with foreboding, they listened for the footfall which both knew would bring with it their impending fate.