“Go, Gyp; go, lad!” Adam said, in a tone of encouraging command; and Gyp, apparently satisfied that duty and pleasure were one, followed Lisbeth into the house-place.

But no sooner had he licked up his supper than he went back to his master, while Lisbeth sat down alone to cry over her knitting.  Women who are never bitter and resentful are often the most querulous; and if Solomon was as wise as he is reputed to be, I feel sure that when he compared a contentious woman to a continual dropping on a very rainy day, he had not a vixen in his eye—­a fury with long nails, acrid and selfish.  Depend upon it, he meant a good creature, who had no joy but in the happiness of the loved ones whom she contributed to make uncomfortable, putting by all the tid-bits for them and spending nothing on herself.  Such a woman as Lisbeth, for example—­at once patient and complaining, self-renouncing and exacting, brooding the livelong day over what happened yesterday and what is likely to happen to-morrow, and crying very readily both at the good and the evil.  But a certain awe mingled itself with her idolatrous love of Adam, and when he said, “Leave me alone,” she was always silenced.

So the hours passed, to the loud ticking of the old day-clock and the sound of Adam’s tools.  At last he called for a light and a draught of water (beer was a thing only to be drunk on holidays), and Lisbeth ventured to say as she took it in, “Thy supper stan’s ready for thee, when thee lik’st.”

“Donna thee sit up, mother,” said Adam, in a gentle tone.  He had worked off his anger now, and whenever he wished to be especially kind to his mother, he fell into his strongest native accent and dialect, with which at other times his speech was less deeply tinged.  “I’ll see to Father when he comes home; maybe he wonna come at all to-night.  I shall be easier if thee’t i’ bed.”

“Nay, I’ll bide till Seth comes.  He wonna be long now, I reckon.”

It was then past nine by the clock, which was always in advance of the days, and before it had struck ten the latch was lifted and Seth entered.  He had heard the sound of the tools as he was approaching.

“Why, Mother,” he said, “how is it as Father’s working so late?”

“It’s none o’ thy feyther as is a-workin’—­thee might know that well anoof if thy head warna full o’ chapellin’—­it’s thy brother as does iverything, for there’s niver nobody else i’ th’ way to do nothin’.”

Lisbeth was going on, for she was not at all afraid of Seth, and usually poured into his ears all the querulousness which was repressed by her awe of Adam.  Seth had never in his life spoken a harsh word to his mother, and timid people always wreak their peevishness on the gentle.  But Seth, with an anxious look, had passed into the workshop and said, “Addy, how’s this?  What!  Father’s forgot the coffin?”

“Aye, lad, th’ old tale; but I shall get it done,” said Adam, looking up and casting one of his bright keen glances at his brother.  “Why, what’s the matter with thee?  Thee’t in trouble.”