grave if I donna see thee at th' last, an' how 's they to let thee know as I'm a-dyin', if thee 't gone a workin' i' distant parts, an' Seth belike gone arter thee, and thy feyther not able t' hold a pen for 's hand shakin', besides not knowin' where thee art. Thee mun forgie thy feyther—thee munna be so bitter again' him. He war a good feyther to thee afore he took to th' drink. He 's a cliver workman, an' taught thee thy trade, remember, an 's niver gen me a blow nor so much as an ill word—no, not even in 's drink. Thee wouldstna ha 'm go to th' workhus—thy own feyther—an' him as was a fine-growed man an' handy at iverythin' amost as thee art thysen, five-an'-twenty 'ear ago, when thee wast a babby at the breast."
Lisbeth's voice became louder, and choked with sobs: a sort of wail, the most irritating of all sounds where real sorrows are to be borne, and real work to be done. Adam broke in impatiently.
"Now, mother, don't cry, and talk so. Haven't I got enough to vex me without that? What 's th' use o' telling me things as I only think too much on every day? If I didna think on 'em, why should I do as I do, for the sake o' keeping things together here? But I hate to be talking where it's no use:
