them that lick theer lips upon his sorrow. Let him pay
for a wrong deed done, for the evil he did that gude might come of it. I
see the right hand o' God holding' the li'l strings of my son's life,
an' I knaw better'n any of 'e what'll be in the bwoy's heart now."

"Yet, when all's said, 'tis a mournful sarcumstance an' sent for our
chastening," contended Mr. Blee stoutly. "Us mustn't argue away the
torment of it an' pretend 'tis nought. Ban't a pleasing thing,
'specially at such a time when all the airth s gwaine daft wi' joy for
the gracious gudeness o' God to the Queen o' England. In plain speech,
't is a damn dismal come-along-of-it, an' I've cried by night, auld
though I am, to think o' the man's babes grawin' up wi' this round theer
necks. An' wan to be born while he 'm put away! Theer 's a black
picksher for 'e! Him doin' hard labour as the Law directs, an' his wife
doin' hard labour, tu--in her lonely bed! Why, gormed if I--"

"For God's sake shut your mouth, you horrible old man!" burst out
Martin, as Phoebe hurried away in tears and Chris followed her. "You're
a disgrace to humanity and I don't hesitate--I don't hesitate at all to
say you have no proper feeling in you!"

"Martin's right, Billy," declared Mr. Lyddon without emotion. "You 'm a
thought tu quick to meet other people's troubles half way, as I've told
'e before to-night. Ban't a comely trait in 'e. You've made her run off
sobbing her poor, bruised heart out. As if she hadn't wept enough o'
late. Do 'e think us caan't see what it all means an' the wisht cloud
that's awver all our heads, lookin' darker by contrast wi' the happiness
of the land, owing to the Jubilee of a gert Queen? Coourse we knaw.
But't is poor wisdom to talk 'bout the blackness of a cloud to them as
be tryin' to find its silver lining. If you caan't lighten trouble, best
to hold your peace."

"What's the use of cryin' 'peace' when us knaws in our hearts 'tis war?
Us must look inside an' outside, an' count the cost same as I be doin'
now," declared Mr. Blee. "Then to be catched up so harsh 'mong friends!
Well, well, gude-night, all; I'll go to my rest. Hard words doan't
break, though they may bruise. But I'll do my duty, whether or no."

He rose and shuffled to the door, then looked round and opened his mouth
to speak again. But he changed his mind, shook his head, snorted
expressively, and disappeared.

"A straange-fashioned chap," commented Mrs. Blanchard, "wi' sometimes a
wi