and carry it to the lonely, bare, stone houses, where there's nothing else to give comfort."
"Eh!" said Lisbeth, "that's very well for ye to talk, as looks welly like the snowdrop flowers as ha' lived for days an' days when I 'n gethered 'em, wi' nothin' but a drop o' water an' a peep o' daylight; but th' hungry foulks had better leave th' hungry country. It makes less mouths for the scant cake. But," she went on, looking at Adam, "donna thee talk o' goin' south'ard or north'ard, an' leavin' thy feyther an' mother i' the churchyard, an' goin' to a country as they know nothin' on. I'll ne'er rest i' my grave if I donna see thee i' th' churchyard of a Sunday."
"Donna fear, mother," said Adam. "If I hadna made up my mind not to go, I should ha' been gone before now."
He had finished his breakfast now, and rose as he was speaking.
"What art goin' to do?" asked Lisbeth. "Set about thy feyther's coffin?"
"No, mother," said Adam; "we're going to take the wood to the village, and have it made there."
"Nay, my lad, nay," Lisbeth burst out in an
