At this moment there came from the inner room some slight noise of motion, and the old woman lifted her finger to her lip.
“And who knows it were not yan on 'em—who?” added Mrs. Garth, after a moment's silence.
“Nay, mother,” said Joe, and his gruff voice was husky in his throat,—“nay, mother, but there is them that knows.”
The woman gave a short forced titter.
“Ye wad mak a swine laugh, ye wad,” she said.
Then, coming closer to where her son now stood with a “lash” comb in his hand before a scratched and faded mirror, she said under her breath,—
“There'll be no rest for him till summat's done, none; tak my word for that. But yance they hang some riff-raff for him it will soon be forgotten. Then all will be as dead as hissel', back and end. What's it to thee, man, who they tak for't? Nowt, Theer's nea sel' like awn sel', Joey.”
Mrs. Garth emphasized her sentiment with a gentle prod of her son's breast.
“That's what you told me long ago,” said the blacksmith, “when you set me to work to help hang the tailor. I cannot bear the sight of him, I cannot.”
Mrs. Garth took her son roughly by the shoulder.