r-sens. Yo' see,
Mester, an' we aw see sometime He thinks on us an' gi's us a lift,
but hasna tha thysen seen times when tha stopt short an' axed thysen,
'Wheer's God-a'-moighty 'at he isna straighten things out a bit? Th'
world's i' a power o' a snarl. Th' righteous is forsaken, 'n his seed's
beggin' bread. An' th' devil's topmost agen.' I've talked to my lass
about it sometimes, an' I dunnot think I meant harm, Mester, for I felt
humble enough--an' when I talked, my lass she'd listen an' smile soft
an' sorrowful, but she never gi' me but one answer.

"'Tim,' she'd say, 'this is on'y th' skoo' an we're th' scholars, an'
He's teachin' us his way We munnot be loike th' children o' Israel i'
th' Wilderness, an' turn away fro' th' cross 'cause o' th' Sarpent. We
munnot say, "Theer's a snake:" we mun say, "Theer's th' Cross, an' th'
Lord gi' it to us." Th' teacher wouldna be o' much use, Tim, if th'
scholars knew as much as he did, an' I allus think it's th' best to
comfort mysen wi' sayin', "Th' Lord-a'-moighty, He knows."'

"An' she alius comforted me too when I wur worretted. Life looked smooth
somewhow them three year. Happen th' Lord sent 'em to me to make up fur
what wur comin'.

"At th' eend o' th' first year th' child wur born, th' little lad here,"
touching the turf with his hand, "'Wee Wattie' his mother ca'd him,
an' he wur a fine, lightsome little chap. He filled th' whole house wi'
music day in an' day out, crowin' an' crowin'--an' cryin' too sometime.
But if ever yo're a feyther, Mester, yo'll find out 'at a baby's cry's
music often enough, an' yo'll find, too, if yo' ever lose one, 'at yo'd
give all yo'd getten just to hear even th' worst o' cryin'. Rosanna she
couldna find i' her heart to set th' little un out o' her arms a minnit,
an' she'd go about th' room wi' her eyes aw leeted up, an' her face
bloomin' like a slip o' a girl's, an' if she laid him i' th' cradle
her head 'ud be turnt o'er har shoulder aw th' time lookin' at him an'
singin' bits o' sweet-soundin' foolish woman-folks' songs. I thowt then
'at them old nursery songs wur th' happiest music I ever heard, an' when
'Sanna sung 'em they minded me o' hymn-tunes.

"Well, Mester, before th' spring wur out Wee Wat was toddlin' round
holdin' to his mother's gown, an' by th' middle o' th' next he was
cooin' like a dove, an' prattlin' words i' a voice like hers. His eyes
wur big an' brown an' straightforrad like hers, an' his mouth was like
hers, an'