Sinfi rose, and came and placed her hand upon my shoulder and whispered,

‘She ain’t a-starvin’, brother; she never starved on the hills.  She’s only jest a-beggin’ her bread for a little while, that’s all.’

And then, after laying her hand upon my forehead, soft and soothing, she returned to Cyril’s side.

‘No one who has never wanted food knows what life is,’ said Wilderspin, taking but little heed of even so violent an interruption as this.’No one has been entirely educated, Mr. Aylwin—­no one knows the real primal meaning of that pathetic word Man—­no one knows the true meaning of Man’s position here among the other living creatures of this world, if he has never wanted food.  Hunger gives a new seeing to the eyes.’

‘That’s as true as the blessed stars,’ muttered old Mrs. Boswell, Rhona’s beloved granny, who was squatting on a rug next to her son Jericho, with a pipe in her mouth, weaving fancy baskets, and listening intently.  ’The very airth under your feet seems to be a-sinkin’ away, and the sweet sunshine itself seems as if it all belonged to the Gorgios, when you’re a-follerin’ the patrin with the emp’y belly.’

‘I thank God,’ continued Wilderspin, ‘that I once wanted food.’

‘More nor I do,’ muttered old Mrs. Boswell, as she went on weaving; ‘no mammy as ever felt a little chavo [Footnote 1] a-suckin’ at her burk [Footnote 2] never thanked God for wantin’ food:  it dries the milk, or else it sp’iles it.’

[Footnote 1:  Child.]

[Footnote 2:  Bosom.]

‘In no way,’ said Wilderspin, ’has the spirit-world neglected the education of the apostle of spiritual beauty.  I became a “blower” in the smithy.  As a child, from early sunrise till nearly midnight, I blew the bellows for eighteen pence a week.  But long before I could read or write my mother knew that I was set apart for great things.  She knew, from the profiles I used to trace with the point of a nail on the smithy walls, that, unless the heavy world pressed too heavily upon me, I should become a great painter.  Except anxiety about my mother and my little brothers and sisters, I, for my part, had no thought besides this of being some day a painter.  Except love for her and for them, I had no other passion.  By assiduous attendance at night-schools I learnt to read and write.  This enabled me to take a better berth in Black Waggon Street, where I earned enough to take lessons in drawing from the reduced widow of a once prosperous fogger.  But ah! so eager was I to learn, that I did not notice how my mother was fading, wasting, dying slowly.  It was not till too late that I learnt the appalling truth, that while the babes had been nourished, the mother had starved—­starved!  On a few ounces of bread a day no woman can work the Oliver and prod the fire.  Her last whispers to me were, “I shall see you, dear, a great painter yet; Jesus will let me look down and watch my boy.”  Ah, Sinfi Lovell! that makes you weep.  It is long, long since I ceased to weep at that.  “Whatsoever is not of faith is sin."’