up the child from the hearth. The little fellow was
tugging at his white beard.

"It were bad luck that me and Mercy didn't stay a day or so langer in
Hendon yon time. She had her eyes then. But the lass was badly, and"
(dropping his voice) "that way, thoo knows, and I warn't to prophesy
what was to happen to poor Paul Ritson. So I brought her straight away
home."

"So thoo did, Gubblum," said Matthew, stroking the child's head.

"It's that Hugh as is at the bottom of it all, I reckon. I'm not afraid
to say it, if he is my master. I allus liked Paul Ritson--the reet one,
thoo knows, not this taistrel that calls hisself Paul Ritson--but I
cared so laal for Hugh that I could have taken him and wrowk't the fire
with him."

The porridge was ready, and Mercy set a wooden bowl on the table. "I's
fullen thy bicker, my lass," said Gubblum. "I's only a laal man, but I's
got a girt appetite, thoo sees." Then turning to Matthew he continued:
"But he's like to pay for it. He brought his raggabash here, and now the
rascal has the upper hand--that's plain to see."

"So it be," said Matthew.

"Deemoralizin' all the country-side, what with his drinkin' and
cock-fightin' and terriers, an' I don't know what. Theer's Dick o' the
Syke, he's a ruined man this day, and John, the blacksmith, he's never
had a heat on the anvil for a week, and as for Job, the mason, he's
shaping to be mair nor ever like his Bible namesake, for he won't have
nowt but his dunghill to sit on soon."

"Dusta think they dunnot ken he's the wrong man?" asked Matthew.

"Nay, Mattha, but a laal bit of money's a wonderful thing, mind ye."

"It is for sure."

"One day he went to clogger Kit to be measur't for new shoes. 'What,
Master Ritson,' says Kit, 'your foot's langer by three lines nor when I
put the tape on it afore.'"

"Ah!"

"Next day Kit had an order for two pairs, forby a pair of leggins and
clogs for Natt. That's the way it's manish'd."

Mercy had taken her child from her father's knee, and was sitting on the
sconce bench with it, holding a broken piece of a mirror before its
face, and listening for its laugh when it saw itself in the glass.

"But he's none Cummerland--hearken to his tongue," said Matthew.

Gubblum put down his spoon on his plate, now empty.

"That minds me," he said, laughing, "that I met him out one day all
dressed in his brave claes--them as might do for a nigger that plays the
banjo. 'Off for a spogue?' I says. 'What's