She's a gude creetur, ain't she, 'Lias ?' 'Ay, but noan so good as my Margaret,' said the old man, looking at her wistfully.' But yo'll wear yorsel down, Margaret; 'yo've had no rest for neets.

Yo're allus toilin' and moilin', an I'm no worth it, Margaret.' The tears gushed to the wife's eyes.

It was only with the nearness of death that 'Lias seemed to have found out his debt to her.

To both, her lifelong service had been the natural offering of the lower to the higher; she had not been used to gratitude, and she could not bear it.
'Dear heart! dear love!' David heard her say; and then there came to his half-reluctant ear caresses such as a mother gives her child.

He laid his head on his knees, trying to shut them out.