We were married in Gaskarth, but work was bad, and we packed up and went to live for a while in a great city, leagues and leagues to the south.

And there my poor girl, Josephine--I called her Josie for short, and because it was more kind and close like--there my poor girl fell ill and died.

Her face got paler day by day, but she kept a brave heart--she was just such like as Rotha that way--and she tended the house till the last, she did." A louder burst of merriment than usual came from the distant room.

The fellows were singing a snatch together.
"Do you know, Rotha called her mother, Josie, too.

I checked her, I did; but my poor girl she said, said she, 'Never mind; the little one has been hearkening to yourself.' You'd have cried, I think, if you'd been with us the day she died.