I were loath to stir, but I saw it were better to go. So giving Jennings a sharp nudge (for he'd fallen asleep), I says, 'Missis, what's to pay?' pulling out my money wi' a jingle that she might na guess we were at all bare o' cash. So she looks at her husband, who said ne'er a word, but were listening with all his ears nevertheless; and when she saw he would na say, she said, hesitating, as if pulled two ways, by her fear o' him, 'Should you think sixpence over much?' It were so different to public-house reckoning, for we'd eaten a main deal afore the chap came down. So says I, 'And missis, what should we gie you for the babby's bread and milk?' (I had it once in my mind to say 'and for a' your trouble with it,' but my heart would na let me say it, for I could read in her ways how it had been a work o' love). So says she, quite quick, and stealing a look at her husband's back, as looked all ear, if ever a back did, 'Oh, we could take nought for the little babby's food, if it had eaten twice as much, bless it.' Wi' that he looked at her; such a scowling look! She knew what he meant, and stepped softly across the floor to him, and put her hand on is arm. He seem'd as though he'd shake it off by a jerk on his elbow, but she said quite low, 'For poor little Johnny's sake, Richard.' He did not move or speak again, and after looking in his face for a minute, she turned away, swallowing deep in her throat. She kissed th' sleeping babby as she passed, when I paid her. To quieten th' gruff husband, and stop him if he rated her, I could na help slipping another sixpence under th' loaf, and then we set off again. Last look I had' o' that woman she were quietly wiping her eyes wi' the corner of her apron, as she went about her husband's breakfast But I shall know her in heaven." He stopped to think of that long-ago May morning, when he had carried his granddaughter under the distant hedge-rows and beneath the flowering sycamores. "There's nought more to say, wench," said he to Margaret, as she begged him to go on. "That night we reached Manchester, and I'd found out that Jennings would be glad enough to give up babby to me, so I took her home at once, and a blessing she's been to me." They were all silent for a few minutes; each following out the current of their thoughts. Then, almost simultaneously, their attention fell upon Mary. Sitting on her little stool, her head resting on her father's knee, and sleeping as soundly as any infant, her breath (still like an infant's) came and went as softly as a bird steals to her leafy nest. Her half-open mouth was as scarlet as the winter-berries, and contrasted finely with the clear paleness of her complexion, where the eloquent blood flushed carnation at each emotion. Her black eye-lashes lay on the delicate cheek, which was still more shaded by the masses of her golden hair, that seemed to form a nest-like pillow for her as she lay. Her father in fond pride straightened one glossy curl, for an instant, as if to display its length and silkiness. The little action awoke her, and, like nine out of ten people in similar circumstances, she exclaimed, opening her eyes to their fullest extent, "I'm not asleep. I've been awake all the time."Even her father could not keep from smiling, and Job Legh and Margaret laughed outright. "Come, wench," said Job, "don't look so gloppened because thou'st fallen asleep while an oud chap like me was talking on oud times. It were like enough to send thee to sleep. Try if thou canst keep thine eyes open while I read thy father a bit on a poem as is written by a weaver like oursel.

A rare chap I'll be bound is he who could weave verse like this." So adjusting his spectacles on nose, cocking his chin, crossing his legs, and coughing to clear his voice, he read aloud a little poem of Samuel Bamford's he had picked up somewhere. God help the poor, who, on this wintry morn, Come forth from alleys dim and courts obscure. God help yon poor pale girl, who droops forlorn, And meekly her affliction doth endure; God help her, outcast lamb; she trembling stands, All wan her lips, and frozen red her hands; Her sunken eyes are modestly downcast, Her night-black hair streams on the fitful blast, Her bosom, passing fair, is half revealed, And oh! so cold, the snow lies there congealed; Her feet benumbed, her shoes all rent and worn, God help thee, outcast lamb, who standst forlorn! God help the poor! God help the poor! An infant's feeble wail Comes from yon narrow gateway, and behold! A female crouching there, so deathly pale, Huddling her child, to screen it from the cold, Her vesture scant, her bonnet crushed and torn; A thin shawl doth her baby dear enfold: And so she 'bides the ruthless gale of morn, Which almost to her heart hath sent its cold, And now she, sudden, darts a ravening look, As one, with new hot bread, goes past the nook, And, as the tempting load is onward home, She weeps. God help thee, helpless one, forlorn! God help the poor! God help the poor! Behold yon famished lad, No shoes, nor hose, his wounded feet protect; With limping gait, and looks so dreamy sad, He wanders onward, stopping to inspect Each window, stored with articles of food. He yearns but to enjoy one cheering meal; Oh! to the hungry palate viands rude, Would yield a zest the famished only feel! He now devours a crust of mouldy bread, With teeth and hands the precious boon is torn; Unmindful of the storm that round his head Impetuous sweeps. God help thee, child forlorn! God help the poor! God help the poor! Another have I found-- A bowed and venerable man is he, His slouched hat with faded crape is bound; His coat is grey, and threadbare too, I see. "The rude winds" seem "to mock his hoary hair"; His shirtless bosom to the blast is bare. Anon he turns and casts a wistful eye, And with scant napkin wipes the blinding spray; And looks around, as if he fain would spy Friends he had feasted in his better day: Ah! some are dead; and some have long forborne To know the poor; and he is left forlorn! God help the poor! God help the poor, who in lone valleys dwell, Or by far hills, where whin and heather grow; Theirs is a story sad indeed to tell; Yet little cares the world, and less 'twould know About the toil and want men undergo. The wearying loom doth call them up at morn; They work till worn-out nature sinks to sleep; They taste, but are not fed. The snow drifts deep Around the fireless cot, and blocks the door; The night storm howls a dirge across the moor; And shall they perish thus--oppressed and lorn? Shall toil and famine, hopeless, still be borne? No! God will yet arise and help the poor! "Amen!" said Barton, solemnly and sorrowfully. "Mary! wench, couldst thou copy me them lines, dost think?--that's to say, if Job there has no objection." "Not I. More they're heard and read the better, say I." So Mary took the paper. And the next day, on a blank half sheet of a valentine, all bordered with hearts and darts--a valentine she had once suspected to come from Jem Wilson--she copied Bamford's beautiful little poem.