there's no one to look after her properly--for that old 'ooman we got
ain't to be trusted. 'Tis a hard thing to have to go on night dooty
when a higher dooty bids me stay at home."

There was a touch of deep feeling in the tone in which the latter part
of Sam Natly's remark was uttered. His young wife, to whom he had been
only a year married, had fallen into bad health, and latterly the
doctors had given him little encouragement to hope for her recovery.

"Sam," said John Marrot stopping, "I'll go an' send a friend, as I knows
of, to look after yer wife."

"A friend?" said Sam; "you can't mean any o' your own family, John, for
you haven't got time to go back that length now, and--"

"Well, never mind, I've got time to go where I'm agoin'. You run on to
the shed, Bob, and tell Garvie that I'll be there in fifteen minutes."

The engine-driver turned off abruptly, and, increasing his pace to a
smart walk, soon stood before the door of one of those uncommonly small
neat suburban villas which the irrigating influence of the Grand
National Trunk Railway had caused to spring up like mushrooms around the
noisy, smoky, bustling town of Clatterby--to the unspeakable advantage
of that class of gentlefolk who possess extremely limited incomes, but
who, nevertheless, prefer fresh air to smoke.

"Is your missus at 'ome?" he inquired of the stout elderly woman who
answered to his modest summons--for although John was wont to clatter
and bang through the greater part of his daily and nightly career, he
was tender of touch and act when out of his usual professional beat.

"Yes; do you wish to see her?"

"I does, my dear. Sorry I 'aven't got a card with me, but if you'll
just say that it's John Marrot, the engine-driver, I dessay that'll do
for a free pass."

The elderly woman went off with a smile, but returned quickly with an
anxious look, and bade the man follow her. He was ushered into a small
and poorly furnished but extremely neat and clean parlour, where sat a
thin little old lady in an easy-chair, looking very pale.

"Ev'nin', ma'am," said John, bowing and looking rougher and bigger than
usual in such a small apartment.

"You--you--don't bring bad news, I hope!--my son Joseph--"

"Oh no, Mrs Tipps, not by no means," said Marrot, hasting to relieve
the timid old lady's feelings, "Mr Joseph is all right--nothing wotiver
wrong with him--nor likely to be, ma'am. Leastwise he wos all right
w'en I seed 'im last."