en
shawl of a poor little mite, who, like so many others, worked with her
shiftless father and mother to add to their weekly earnings. It was
always the poorest and least cared for of the children whom he seemed to
befriend, and very often I noticed that even when he was kindest, in
his awkward man fashion, the little waifs were afraid of him, and showed
their fear plainly.

The factory was situated on the outskirts of a thriving country town
near Manchester, and at the end of the lane that led from it to the more
thickly populated part there was a path crossing a field to the pretty
church and church-yard, and this path was a short cut homeward for me.
Being so pretty and quiet the place had a sort of attraction for me; and
I was in the habit of frequently passing through it on my way, partly
because it was pretty and quiet, perhaps, and partly, I have no doubt,
because I was inclined to be weak and melancholy at the time, my health
being broken down under hard study.

It so happened that in passing here one night, and glancing in among the
graves and marble monuments as usual, I caught sight of a dark figure
sitting upon a little mound under a tree and resting its head upon its
hands, and in this sad-looking figure I recognized the muscular outline
of my friend Surly Tim.

He did not see me at first, and I was almost inclined to think it best
to leave him alone; but as I half turned away he stirred with something
like a faint moan, and then lifted his head and saw me standing in the
bright, clear moonlight.

"Who's theer?" he said. "Dost ta want owt?"

"It is only Doncaster, Hibblethwaite," I returned, as I sprang over the
low stone wall to join him. "What is the matter, old fellow? I thought I
heard you groan just now."

"Yo' mought ha' done, Mester," he answered heavily. "Happen tha did. I
dunnot know mysen. Nowts th' matter though, as I knows on, on'y I'm a
bit out o' soarts."

He turned his head aside slightly and began to pull at the blades of
grass on the mound, and all at once I saw that his hand was trembling
nervously.

It was almost three minutes before he spoke again.

"That un belongs to me," he said suddenly at last, pointing to a
longer mound at his feet. "An' this little un," signifying with an
indescribable gesture the small one upon which he sat.

"Poor fellow," I said, "I see now."

"A little lad o' mine," he said, slowly and tremulously. "A little lad
o' mine an'--an' his mother.'