Mary Batchelor saw nothing but Tressady, whom she was still holding by the arm—looking up to him.
"Aye, but I didna disturb my Jamie, yer know. Noa!—I left im i the owd coat they'd thrown over im i the pit—I dursn't ha touched is back. Noa, I dursn't. But I made his shroud mysen, an I put it ower his poor workin clothes, an I washed his face, an is hands an feet—an then I kissed him, an I said, 'Jamie, yo mun go an tell the Lord as yo ha done your best, an He ha dealt hardly by you!—an that's the treuth—He ha dealt hardly by yer!'"
She gave a loud sob, and bowed her head on her hands a moment. Then, pushing back her grey locks from her face, she rose, struggling for composure.
"Aye, aye, Mr. George—aye, aye, I'll not keep yer no longer."
But as she took his hand, she added passionately:
"An I towd the vicar I couldn't be Bible-woman no more. Theer's somethin broken in me sen Jamie died. I must keep things to mysen—I ain't got nuthin good to say to others—I'm allus grievin at the Lord. Good-bye to yer—good-bye to yer."
Her voice had grown absent, indifferent. But when George asked her, just as they were leaving the cottage, who was the boy sitting by the fire, her face darkened. She came hurriedly to the door with them, and said in George's ear:
"He's my darter's child—my darter by my first usband. His feyther an mother are gone, an he come up from West Bromwich to live wi me. But he isn't no comfort to me. He don't take no notice of anybody. He set like that, with his football, when Jamie lay a-dyin. I'd as lief be shut on him. But theer—I've got to put up wi im."
Letty meanwhile had approached the boy and looked at him curiously.
"Do you work in the pits too?" she asked him.