cted way: "I dunnot know why
it should ha' done. I mun be mad, or summat. I nivver had no hope nor
nothin': theer nivver wur no reason why I should ha' had. Ay, I mun be
wrong somehow, or it wouldna stick to me i' this road. I conna get rid
on it, an' I conna feel as if I want to. What's up wi' me? What's
takken howd on me?" his voice breaking and the words ending in a sharp
hysterical gasp like a sob.

Bess wrung her towel with a desperate strength which spoke of no small
degree of tempestuous feeling. Her brow knit itself and her lips were
compressed. "What's happened?" she demanded after a pause. "I conna mak'
thee out."

The look that fell upon her companion's face had something of shame in
it. His eyes left the mountain side and drooped upon his clasped hands.
"Theer wur a lass coom to look at 'th place today," he said--"a lady
lass, wi' her feyther--an' him. She wur aw rosy red an' fair white, an'
it seemt as if she wur that happy as her laughin' made th' birds mock
back at her. He took her up th' mountain, an' we heard 'em both even
high up among th' laurels. Th' sound o' their joy a-floatin' down from
the height, so nigh th' blue sky, made me sick an' weak-loike. They wur
na so gay when they comn back, but her eyes wur shinin', an' so wur his,
an' I heerd him say to her as 'Foak didna know how nigh heaven th' top
o' th' mountain wur.'"

Bess wrung her towel again, and regarded the mountain with manifest
impatience and trouble. "Happen it'll coom reet some day," she said.

"Reet!" repeated the lad, as if mechanically. "I hadna towd mysen' as
owt wur exactly wrong; on'y I conna see things clear. I niwer could, an'
th' more I ax mysen' questions th' worse it gets. Wheer--wheer could I
lay th' blame?"

"Th' blame!" said Bess. "Coom tha' an' get a bite to eat;" and she shook
out the towel with a snap and turned away. "Coom tha," she repeated; "I
mun get my work done."

That night, as Seth lay upon his pallet in the shanty, the sound of
Langley's horse's hoofs reached him with an accompaniment of a clear,
young masculine voice singing a verse of some sentimental modern
carol--a tender song ephemeral and sweet. As the sounds neared the cabin
the lad sprang up restlessly, and so was standing at the open door when
the singer passed. "Good-neet, mester," he said.

The singer slackened his pace and turned his bright face toward him in
the moonlight, waving his hand. "Good-night," he said, "and pleasant
dreams! Min