His wife, Nanny, was a hale and cheerful woman, with a fastidious love of cleanliness, and order, and quietness, too, for she was more than seventy years of age. I found her knitting, and slowly swaying her portly form to and fro in a shiny old-fashioned chair, by the fireside. The carved oak clock-case in the corner was as bright as a mirror; and the solemn, authoritative ticking of the ancient time-marker was the loudest sound in the house. But the softened roar of the stream outside filled all the place, steeping the senses in a drowsy spell. At the end of a long table under the front window, sat Nanny's granddaughter, a rosy, round-faced lass, about twelve years old. She was turning over the pictures in a well-thumbed copy of "Culpepper's Herbal." She smiled, and shut the book, but seemed unable to speak; as if the poppied enchantment that wrapt the spot had subdued her young spirit to a silence which she could not break. I do not wonder that old superstitions linger in such nooks as that. Life there is like bathing in dreams. But I saw that they had heard me coming; and when I stopt in the doorway, the old woman broke the charm by saying, "Nay sure! What; han yo getten thus far? Come in, pray yo."

"Well, Nanny," said I; "where's th' owd chap?"

"Eh," replied the old woman; "it's noan time for him yet. But I see," continued she, looking up at the clock, "it's gettin' further on than I thought. He'll be here in abeawt three-quarters of an hour—that is, if he doesn't co', an' I hope he'll not, to neet. I'll put th' kettle on. Jenny, my lass, bring him a tot o' ale."

I sat down by the side of a small round table, with a thick plane-tree top, scoured as white as a clean shirt; and Jenny brought me an old-fashioned blue-and-white mug, full of homebrewed.

"Toast a bit o' hard brade," said Nanny, "an' put it into't."

I did so.

The old woman put the kettle on, and scaled the fire; and then, settling herself in her chair again, she began to re-arrange her knitting-needles. Seeing that I liked my sops, she said, "Reitch some moor cake-brade. Jenny'll toast it for yo."

I thanked her, and reached down another piece; which Jenny held to the fire on a fork. And then we were silent for a minute or so.

"I'll tell yo what," said Nanny, "some folk's o'th luck i'th world."

"What's up now, Nanny?" replied I.

"They say'n that Owd Bill, at Fo' Edge, has had a dowter wed, an' a cow cauve't, an a mare foal't o' i' one day. Dun yo co' that nought?"

Before I could reply, the sound of approaching footsteps came upon our ears. Then, they stopt, a few yards off; and a clear voice trolled out a snatch of country song:—

   "Owd shoon an' stockins,
   An' slippers at's made o' red leather!
   Come, Betty, wi' me,
   Let's shap to agree,
   An' hutch of a cowd neet together.

   "Mash-tubs and barrels!
   A mon connot olez be sober;
   A mon connot sing
   To a bonnier thing
   Nor a pitcher o' stingin' October."

"Jenny, my lass," said the old woman, "see who it is. It's oather
'Skedlock' or 'Nathan o' Dangler's.'"

Jenny peeped through the window, an' said, "It's Skedlock. He's lookin' at th' turmits i'th garden. Little Joseph's wi' him. They're comin' in. Joseph's new clogs on."

Skedlock came shouldering slowly forward into the cottage,—a tall, strong, bright-eyed man, of fifty. His long, massive features were embrowned by habitual exposure to the weather, and he wore the mud-stained fustian dress of a quarryman. He was followed by a healthy lad, about twelve years of age,—a kind of pocket-copy of himself. They were as like one another as a new shilling and an old crown-piece. The lad's dress was of the same kind as his father's, and he seemed to have studiously acquired the same cart-horse gait, as if his limbs were as big and as stark as his father's.

"Well, Skedlock," said Nanny, "thae's getten Joseph witho, I see. Does he go to schoo yet ?"

"Nay; he reckons to worch i'th delph wi' me, neaw."

"Nay, sure. Does he get ony wage?"

"Nawe," replied Skedlock; "he's drawn his wage wi' his teeth, so fur. But he's larnin', yo' known—he's larnin'. Where's yo'r Jone? I want to see him abeawt some plants."

"Well," said Nanny, "sit tho down a minute. Hasto no news? Thae'rt seldom short of a crack o' some mak."

"Nay," said Skedlock, scratching his rusty pate, "aw don't know 'at aw've aught fresh." But when he had looked thoughtfully into the fire for a minute or so, his brown face lighted up with a smile, and drawing a chair up, he said, "Howd, Nanny; han yo yerd what a do they had at th' owd chapel, yesterday?"

"Nawe."

"Eh, dear!… Well, yo known, they'n had a deal o' bother about music up at that chapel, this year or two back. Yo'n bin a singer yo'rsel, Nanny, i' yo'r young days—never a better."

"Eh, Skedlock," said Nanny; "aw us't to think I could ha' done a bit, forty year sin—an' I could, too—though I say it mysel. I remember gooin' to a oratory once, at Bury. Deborah Travis wur theer, fro Shay. Eh! when aw yerd her sing 'Let the bright seraphim,' aw gav in. Isherwood wur theer; an' her at's Mrs Wood neaw; an' two or three fro Yawshur road on. It wur th' grand'st sing 'at ever I wur at i' my life…. Eh, I's never forget th' practice-neets 'at we use't to have at owd Israel Grindrod's! Johnny Brello wur one on 'em. He's bin deead a good while…. That's wheer I let of our Sam. He sang bass at that time…. Poor Johnny! He's bin deead aboon five-an-forty year, neaw."

"Well, but, Nanny," said Skedlock, laying his hand on the old woman's shoulder, "yo known what a hard job it is to keep th' bant i'th nick wi' a rook o' musicianers. They cap'n the world for bein' diversome, an' jealous, an' bad to plez. Well, as I wur sayin'—they'n had a deeal o' trouble about music this year or two back, up at th' owd chapel. Th' singers fell out wi' th' players. They mostly dun do. An' th' players did everything they could to plague th' singers. They're so like. But yo' may have a like aim, Nanny, what mak' o' harmony they'd get out o' sich wark as that. An' then, when Joss o' Piper's geet his wage raise't—five shillin' a year—Dick o' Liddy's said he'd ha' moor too, or else he'd sing no moor at that shop. He're noan beawn to be snape't wi' a tootlin' whipper-snapper like Joss,—a bit of a bow-legged whelp, twenty year yunger nor his-sel. Then there wur a crack coom i' Billy Tootle bassoon; an' Billy stuck to't that some o'th lot had done it for spite. An' there were sich fratchin an' cabals among 'em as never wur known. An' they natter't, and brawl't, an' back-bote; and played one another o' maks o' ill-contrive't tricks. Well, yo' may guess, Nanny—

"One Sunday mornin', just afore th' sarvice began, some o' th' singers slipt a hawp'oth o' grey peighs an' two young rattons into old Thwittler double-bass; an' as soon as he began a-playin', th' little things squeak't an' scutter't about terribly i' th' inside, till thrut o' out o' tune. Th' singers couldn't get forrud for laughin'. One on 'em whisper't to Thwittler, an' axed him if his fiddle had getten th' bally-warche. But Thwittler never spoke a word. His senses wur leavin' him very fast. At last, he geet so freeten't, that he chuck't th' fiddle down, an' darted out o'th chapel, beawt hat; an' off he ran whoam, in a cowd sweet, wi' his yure stickin' up like a cushion-full o' stockin'-needles. An' he bowted straight through th' heawse, an' reel up-stairs to bed, wi' his clooas on, beawt sayin' a word to chick or