There was silence for a few moments, then John asked, “Was that all, mother?”

“We had more to say, but it was of a personal nature—­I don’t think it concerns you at present.”

“Nay, but it does, mother.  Everything connected with Jane concerns me.”

Mrs. Hatton appeared reluctant to speak, but John’s anxiety was so evident, she answered, “Well, then, it was about my children.”

“What about them?”

“She said she had heard her mother speak of my ‘large family’ and yet she had never seen any of them but Henry and yourself.  She wondered if her mother had been mistaken.  And I said, ’Nay, your mother told the truth, thank God!’

“‘You see,’ she continued, ’I was at school until a year ago, and our families were not at all intimate.’  I said, ’Not at all.  Your father was a proud man, Miss Harlow, and he would not notice a cotton-spinner on terms of social equality.  And Stephen Hatton thought himself as good as the best man near him.  So he was.  And no worse for the mill.  It kept up the Hall, so it did.’  She said I was right, and would I tell her about my children.”

“I hope you did, mother.  I do hope you did.”

“Why not?  I am proud of them all, living or dead—­here or there.  So I said, ’Well, Miss Harlow, John is not my firstborn.  There was a lovely little girl, who went back to God before she was quite a year old.  People said I ought to think it a great honor to give my first child to God, but it was a great grief to me.  Soon after her death John was born, and after John came Clara Ann.  She married before she was eighteen, a captain of artillery in the army, and she has ever since been with him in India, Africa, or elsewhere.  Then I had Stephen, who is now a well-known Manchester warehouse man and seldom gets away from his business.  Then Paul was given to me.  He is a good boy, and a fine sailor.  His ship is the Ajax, a first-class line of battleship.  I see him now and then and get a letter from every port he touches.  Then came Harry, who served an apprenticeship with his father, but never liked the mill; and at last, the sweetest gift of all God’s gifts, twin daughters, called Dora and Edith.  They lived with us nearly eight years, and died just before their father.  They were born in the same hour and died within five minutes of each other.  The Lord gave them, and the Lord took them away, and blessed be the name of the Lord!’ This is about what I said, John.”

The conversation was interrupted here, by the entrance of a parlor-maid.  She said, “Sir, Jonathan Greenwood is here to ask if you can see him this evening.”

“Tell him I cannot.  I will see him at the mill about half-past nine in the morning.”

The girl went away, but returned immediately.  “Jonathan says, sir, that will do.  He wants to go to a meeting tonight, sir.”  Then Mrs. Hatton looked at her son, and exclaimed, “How very kind of your overseer to make your time do!  Is that his usual way?”