‘It's fifty year come next Whisundy sin thi faither brought me here, lad—fifty year, and it only seems like yesterday. We were wed at th' owd church i' Manchester. Dan o' Nodlocks, as used to live up at th' Chapel-hill, drove us there and back in his new spring-cart; and what wi' gettin' there and being spliced, and comin' wom' we were all th' day at th' job. Th' sun were just showin' hissel o'er th' hill yonder when we started, and it were goin' daan o'er th' moors when we geet back; and thi faither, Jimmy, as he lifted me daan from th' cart and put me in th' porch yonder, kissed me and said: “Sunshine aatside, Jenny, and sunshine in.” An' that's fifty year ago, lad, and I've never slept out o' th' owd haas from that neet to this, and I durnd want to leave it naa.’
‘Well, durnd tak' on like that, mother; if tha' does thaa'll break my heart. We shall happen stop yet, who knows?’ and Jim almost choked with the lie which he told in his wild anguish to stay the torrent of his mother's grief.
But the crooning old woman heeded him not. With eyes fixed on the fire she continued to read the horoscope of the past:
‘We were some happy, those first years, I can tell thee. Then little Billy wor born. Poor little Billy! Thaa's been a good lad, Jim, but I often think what a good un little Billy would ha' been if he'd lived! But he deed. Ay! I con remember it as though it were nobbud yesterneet. It was abaat th' deead hour, and I wakened up sudden-like, for summat towd me all were not reet wi' th' lad. I made thi faither strike a leet, and then I see'd Billy's een were set, and his little mouth twitchin'. Thi faither run off, half dressed as he were, for th' doctor. But it wor no use; Billy were going cowd in my arms when they both geet back. And then they laid th' little lad aat in th' owd chamber, and I used to creep upstairs when thi faither were in th' meadow, and talk to Billy, and ax him to oppen his een. But it wor all no use, he never glent at me agen. I never cried, lad—I couldn't. I felt summat wor taan aat o' me,’ and the old woman laid her hand on her heart. ‘I was empty-like; and then five years after, as I lay in bed in th' owd chamber aboon—same chamber as Billy were laid out in—Mary o' Sams, who had come to nurse me, said: “Thou mun look up, Jenny, it's another lad,” and she put thee in my arms, and then th' warkin' went, and I were a happy woman again. I could ha' liked to ha' kept little Billy, but Him aboon knows best: thaa's bin a good lad to me, Jimmy.’
Tears began to stream from the eyes of Jimmy's wife; and stooping down, she lifted her sleeping baby from its cradle, and hugged it to her breast. The story of little Billy had, for the moment, softened the heart of this practical and common-sense woman.
‘That's reet, lass. Keep him close to thee, he'll need thee and thaa'll need him afore yo're both done wi' th' world. Since thi faither deed, Jimmy, I've felt to need thee more and more. It's ten year this last back-end sin' we buried him. And it's nobbud just like yesterday. He wor in th' barn when he wor taan, sudden-like, with apoplex; and he never spoke, or knew me or you at after. And he wor laid aat in th' owd chamber, too, where they laid little Billy aat afore him, and where yo' wor born, lad. I thought I should be laid aat there, and all, and I could ha' liked it to be so. But I mun be off to bed, childer, it's gettin' lat'. I shall sleep in th' owd chamber to-neet, wheresomever I sleep to-morn.’
And so saying, the grandmother took her lamp, and climbed the worn stone staircase to her room—a staircase trodden so many times in changing moods of joy and sorrow, and with feet now gladsome and now weary with honest toil and household care.
When Jimmy and his wife were alone, and the sound of the old woman's voice no longer fell upon their ears, they realized, as never before, the anguish of their surroundings. They were spending their last night in what to one had been a life-long home, and to the other a shelter of happiness for ten years of married life. The story was a sad one, and yet, alas! not uncommon. Crawshaw Fold—the old farmstead—dated back two hundred years, and from the time of its erection to the present, had known neither owners nor occupiers save those of the sturdy yeoman family from which it took its name. It had been the boast of the Crawshaws that no alien ever lorded it beneath their roof, or sat as presiding genius at their hearth. They were proud to tell how all the heirs of Crawshaw Fold only entered its portals by the mystic gate of birth, nor departed until summoned by the passing bell. But families, like individuals, grow old, and with the course of years the richest blood runs thin. Bad seasons, which are the friends of the money-lender and mortgagee, are the foes of hereditary descent and family pride, and many are the escutcheons erased and the lines of lineage broken by reverses wrought through their fitful moods. The Crawshaws were no exception. A succession of disasters on their little farmstead brought them to sore straits, and for deliverance they sought help of one Moses Fletcher, who advanced money on the deeds of the property. So bad were the times that James Crawshaw was unable to meet the interest, and on the morrow Moses was putting in force his claim. This was the shadow that fell across the hearth—the despair that was seated like a hideous ghoul by their fireside. In the morning three generations of Crawshaw would be homeless.
‘Well, lad,’ said Jimmy's wife, ‘it's no use lying daan to dee afore one's time; there's this little un to fend for, and, as I say, th' wick is o' more value than th' deeing. Th' owd Book says as th' deead is to bury th' deead, but I'm noan deead yet.’