Daddy Jack and Daddy Jim

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXIII, Issue IX, 26 August 1899, Page 37

Daddy Jack and Daddy Jim

By

M. E. FRANCIS.

(Author of “ In a North Country Village," " Itan," etc™ etc.)

PART 1. Fanner Jack Buxton strolled leisurely alonft the well-trodden path which led. under the shadow of the hawthorn hedge. to the high road. In his hand was a thick stick: at his heel followed a mongrel shee|>-dog. "not much to look at." as his master saJd. "but as sensible as a Christian in bis mouth was a short, well-smoked black pipe: Jack looked what he was. a sturdy, comfortable north-country fanner, well content with himself and the world.

It was a sunny, breezy April day. To the left of the thorn hedge was a field cf autumn-sown wheat. 11rcaily making a brave show: to the right a pasture in which Jack Buxton's cows were feeding. Through the brilliant delicate green lattice of the new-budded hedge, he caught a glimpse of one or two sleek red backs, and standing still a moment he could hear the cntnch. cnineh of the creatures' teeth meeting in the fresh ycnng herbage. A little further on was a gleam of white— and a horned head, with a pair of mild eyes and dilated nostrils brqathing warm elover-scented puffs. peered at its master through a gap in the green.

Jack cocked his hat a little sideways. took his pipe out of his mouth, and smiled. Bob. the dog. standing a little behind him. pricked his ears, and showed his glistenning white teeth as though to follow- suit. The cow. after contemplating them for a moment or two. stretched out her neck, extended her long pink tongue. and caught hold of a particularly tempting thorn-bough: whereupon Jack, uttering an extraordinary sort of growl, strode forward and tapped her on the nose.

"None o' thot!" he cried threateningly. "thot theer 'edge isn't for thee, owd lass. Ah. thou may look and toss thy head. What's grass for. an' clover, an' all they turmits thou's getten into thee i' th' winter, that thou mon eoom nibblin' my 'edge? Be off wi' thee—doesto year?—or we's try if Bob can mak' thee run a bit." He flourished his stick, and the old lady, taking the hint, retired a little way into the field, pausing, when she had attained what she considered a safe distance, to survey him with a defiant air.

"Hoo'll be at it again soon's ever my back's turned." observed the farmer to himself—"hoo will for sure. Mich same as our owd missus—hoo'll have her way* as how 'tis. Owd Daisy vonder minds me often o' the owd iass, wi" her white face an' her black e'en, an' thot theer stubborn way hoo has. Eh. our Mary 'nd be some mad if hoo was t'ear me. But hoo s appy enough to-day. Eh. hoo is. an' I am too. An' Jim. Whatever'll Jim say*. Hallo! What mischief han yo' agate, yo' young raskils?" Turning suddenly round the corner, for the hedge, and the path with it described an abrupt angle just there, he had come face to face with a party of small boys, decorated with ribbons. carrying flags, and further provider! with baskets, each of which contained hens' eggs in greater or lesser number. “Eh. Mester Buxton:" exclaimed one little fellow after a startled pause, ‘wen nobbut coom paste-eggin." “Ah. Easter Sunday to-morrow, ye know." put in another. "Easter Sunday or no Easter, growled Jack with a portentous frown, "what brings yo' paste-eggin' 1 my field—eh. yo' little scamps? I've a mind to paste-egg yo'. I have." The farmer's tone was rough, and his expression severe, but the eggcollectors merely nudged each other and grinned: Farmer Jack's bark was known to be worse than his bite. "We was on our road to yo'r place, mester; we thowt' happen Mrs Buxton 'ud spare ns a two three eggs." observed the little spokesman of the party, presently, with a sly glance. "Hoo alius does. Hoo’s gi'en us geese eggs an' all sorts.

-Well, our missus connot moiderrd wi’ yo* to-day. Hoo’s other things to be thinkin’ on. We’n getten a big paste-egg o’ ow’re own as tak’s all we’re lime to see to.” Here the farmer suddenly threw back his head, and uttered a guffaw, in which the lads joined, though the joke was quite unintelligible to them.

— _\h.” pursued Jack. ’* The missus has getten a gradely paste-egg. Ye mnnnot go yonder to get in her road. Turn yo’ round again, my lads, an go some other gate on. See yo theer’s a penny to buy some sugarsticks —off wi’ yo’.” The boys, only half content. turr.e.l as they were desired, and Jack fallowed more slowly in their wake, watching them as they clambered over the stile at the further end of the field, and betook themselves in the direction of the village whence they had coma.*. Then stood still once more and chuckled.

“ A paste-egg ! It’s a notion, thot.” He went on again ; his broad sunburnt face creasing itself into a thousand jubilant wrinkles, his eyes twinkling under their shaggy grizzled brows ; his hat set on at a more jaunty angle than ever. When he reached the stile he seated himself astride of the topmost bar. and looked expectantly down the road. His son-in-law. Jim Norris, would soon return from market. He had a piece of news for Jim : a piece of news at which he was not only much elated, but which he meant to announce in a most original manner. After what appeared to him an unconscionable time a train of waggons hove in sight, some piled high with empty baskets, and others laden with muck ” of rich hue and powerful aroma. Jack stood up. balancing himself on the lower step of the stile, and eagerly scanning the faces of the drivers. Some of them lay outstretched on the yielding mass aforementioned. as content as though they reposed on rose-leaves, others walked slowly alongside of their horses ; but. for the most part, they sat balanced on one of the shafts—a favour! Ze position with carters, and one attended with no small danger to those not exceptionally sober and wide-awake.

” Hallo. Ned. hasto seen our Jim ?” cried Jack, as the waggons lumbered by. his own stout team of roans, and his son-in-law’s lanky figure not being yet in sight.

** Ah. he’s yonder, reet enough, without he’s fell i* th’ road. He’s sat o’ th’ shaft asleep as like as not.” “ He’s nobbut ninepence»in the shillin’ at th’ best o’ times,” remarked Jack, knocking the ashes from his pipe. ” But I’ll tell him summat as ’ull wakken him.”

The roar, indeed, with which he greeted Jim. when the blue, muckladen waggon at last appeared, would have awakened any sleeper who was neither dead nor totally intoxicated, "and Jim who was not bv anv means

” market-fuddled ” sat upright at once, yawned, and enquired drowsily ” What’s to do ?”

” What’s to do ?” echoed Jack, descending from his perch, and laying a detaining hand on the leading horse's bridle. ” Snmmat as ’ll surprise thee. Hasn’t thou wakkened up yet. lazi tones ’? I tell ’ee what it is. Jim. thou’lt lie found some day lavin’ th’ road wi’ thy yead as flat as a podcake. an’ thy in’ards mashed to a jelly. So I tell ee. Why doesn’t thou get a’ top o’ th’ muck. lad. if thou’s set on a dose ? Nice soft l>ed for thee, thot !”

” <>ur Maggie sauces me for’t.” pleaded Jim. ** Hoo’s alius agate i’ bargin' about my cloo’es—hoo says they smell thot strong hoo cannot ston’ it.”

” Ah. well—the stuff might be a bit sweeter.” commented his father-in-law in softened tones. “ Well, num I tell ’ee what we’n get tin yonder s’n this mornin’.”

Jim scratched bis lantern-jaw. and looked up interrogatively. ” We’n getten a paste-egg ! Our

Maggie 'll tell ee’ summat about it.” said Jack solemnly. “We han thot.” He endeavoured to retain a becoming gravity, but the mere sight of Jim’s puzzled face was too much for him : and he broke into a paroxysm of laughter.

- A paste-egg. lad. 1 tell ’ee.” he repeated brokenly. “A proper pasteegg. Ho! Ho! Ho! ”

“Ah.” commented Jim at last. “Toinorn’s Easier. Eh—an’ yo’n getten some paste-eggs. han yo’? Well.”

Jack laughed on till he was almost suffocated, but presently, after much shuffling of the feet and io ling of the head, he recovered a decent semblance of composure.

”Eh! Jim— thou’rt a noddy if iver I see un. Thou connot mak* nought o’ tii’ paste-egg. con thou? Why lari, thou’rt a feyther! thou art. for sure! Our Maggie’s getten a little ’un. Thou’rt “Baddy Jim” I tell ’ee. An’ it’s a wench, mon —a little fat lass, wi’ black e’en same as her mother an’ her gron’mother. Theer —what does thou say to thot?” Jim tumbled off the shaft, pushed his battered bar to the back of his head, ami gaped at the new-

made grandfather, a slow rapture gradually creeping over his swartht lace. “Eh. . . . ha> it room?” “Ah. it has coom —and doesn't thou think it’s bin long enough •’ th* road? Well, rhou’lt iw fur serin’ it. I fancy. Go th* ways a-whoam then, an’ I’ll see to th’ waggon.” "Eh.” ejaculated Daddy Jim. surrendering the reins, “it’s room. Mt word!” “Off wi’ ti»o’! the little wench ’ull lie half-up grown afore thou sees her if thou doesna stir thysel* a bit.” “An’ th< t were the paste-egg.” went on Jim. who wa> rather slow in faking in an idea. “Eh I were wellt moidrred wi’ thy paate-egg. I could na think whativer was to do. Ho! Ho! the wench were the |Ki<te-egg? Well to think on’t.” He had clambered over the stile b\ this time .and was now shambling off in the direction of the farm, as fast as his huge loose - jointed limbs would take him. chuckling to hims«*lf now ami then, but not so frequently, nor so loudly, as his father-in-law. IL* was too much overwhelm at rhe news. It had come. He was a

father. His missus hud a little 'uu Eh!

Mrs. Buxton, an upright, stirring old body, in whose long pale face there could indeed be traced a certain resemblance to that of the white cow, was bustling energetically about the kitchen when Jim entered, and waylaid him as he was making for his wife's room. •'Thou mun tak' off thy shoon.” Jim obediently kicked them off. "Thou art na fuddled, I 'ope?” “Nawe,” said Jim. "I've nobbut had two gills.” “Thou munnot l>e talkin’ an’ moiderin' our Maggie "I’ll nicer cheep.” said Jim. •'Well, then, eoom." She led the way, her son-in-law following her. treading heavily enough in his “stocking feet." an expression of awe on his swarthy face, ami his eyes round with wonder. There lay Maggie in the four-post bed. her pale face, with its pretty dark eyes resting on a grand frilled pillow slip. This, with a new counterpane. and spotless linen sheets had been carefully prepared for the occasion. Jim came forward unwieldily on tip-toe. “Eh. Maggie,” he said, with a litle one-sided njod. “An’ how art thou, lass’?" "It’s a wench. Jim. whispered Maggie. "I doubt thou'd rayther me ha’ had a lad.” “Nawe." said Jim. "I’d as soon 'ave a lass to start wi'.” "Eh. bless th’ lad !” cried Mrs. BuxfioiH. with shrill grandmotherly glee. "To start wi’,’’ he says. Thou'rt fuij goin' forrard. art thou? Poor Maggie ’till happen not be in sich a hurry for another. Wilt thou lass? “To start wi’,” says he.” Maggie laughed weakly, and Jim began to think he had said something rather clever. “Ah. a lass is reet enough.” he remarked. rubbing his hands. and chuckling ecstatically, “for a beginnin'. We's ha’ a lad next.” “Ark at him.’’ said Grandmother. “There now: howd thy din. What doesto think our Maggie’s yead is made on? Well, doesn’t, thou want to see the child? See then eh, lino's a bonny little lass, hoo is. bless her little ’eart. Hoo’s a gradely little wench—see her little legs, an’ her 'ands. Eh. theer's a mony ehilder a month owd not half the size.” Jim bent over, and took the tiny fist tenderly in his great paw, shaking it gently up and down. “Shake "ands. 'Jittie la,ss. Shake ’ands wi' thy Daddy. Eh. we’s be gradely friends, thou an’ me. See thou. Maggie, hoo’s getten howd o’ my finger. My word, hoo has.” "I think hoo favvours thee,” murmured Maggie. “Nay, nay. hoo tak's arter our fam'ly.,” said Mik Buxton hastily. "How’s getten thy e’en, Maggie.” Jim gravely contemplated the child’s puckered little red face, but did not commit himself. Mrs Buxton wrapped up mother ami babe again, smoothing the sheet, and drawing forward the curtain of the bed, so as to screen Maggie's eyes from the light. Then she peremptorily desired .Jim to take himself off, a command which the honest fellow (obeyed without murmuring, merely pausing at the door for another look at Maggie. IT had not occurred to him to kiss her, and tender words did not spring naturally to his lips. But Maggie’s eyes rested lovingly on "the awkward figure standing with clumsy fingers fumbling at the latch, and a queer halfsheepish smile on bis grimy face. She smiled back, ami drawing the bed-clothes down a little way. waved the baby’s liny arm. And so they parted. Jim returning with a beaming face to the kitchen.

Jim woke up next morning with a vague sense of exhilaration for which he. could not at first account, but which presently resolved itself into paternal pride. When he had "eleaned him.” and scraped his week’s growth of beard off —a painful and lengthy operation — plastered his locks well with hair-oil. and donned his Sunday suit of broad-cloth, he went on tip-toe to Maggie's door. He could hear her mother moving about and talking: then the splashing of the water, then a sound which startled him.

“It’s niver th’ little un! Eh. but it is. for sure. ’Ark. how hoo shrikes obt. Eh. my word, hoo’s gradely lungs. Hoo’s a rare little lass.” lie opened the door and peeped in. Baby's ablutions were going on. much to her own dissatisfaction, the

half-terrified admiration of her mother, and the delight of “Grandma.”

“(oom thy ways in an’ shut yon door,” commanded the latter. "The child ’ll eatch its death o’ cold.” Jim shut the door and advanced into the room. |mi using at the foot of the bed to not! at Maggie; then, bending down, am) resting his hands on his knees, he took note of the contortions of the pink wonder in Mrs Buxton's lap.

“Hoo mind’s me summat of a frog,” he observed after a pause. Grandma paused a moment in speechless indignation.

“Well, an’ thou should l»e ashamed of thysel". Did ivir a hotly hear o’ sich a thing? A frog! As bonny a little wench as ivir drawed breath!” "It were th' little limbs stretchin’ out an' pullin’ theirsel’s up as made me think it." explained Jim apologetically “an’ yon’ little round body hoo’s getten —eh. I connot but fancy hoo’s a look of a frog.” “Ditl thou iver leet on a frog wi’ such a yead of ’air?” enquired Mrs Buxton, rubbing the towel round and round the little helpless head with its coating of dark fluff.

“Nay. I connot call to mind as I have.” responded her son-in-law with a loud laugh. The suggestion seemed to him infinitely humorous.

"Well, then.” summed up Mrs Buxton. as though that clinched the matter.

Jack and Jim went their way to church, presently, equally jubilant, each after his own fashion; and received with a certain dignified triumph the congratulations of friends and kinsfolk congregated outside the lych-gate. “I like as if I were glad it’s Easter to-day.” observed Jim to his father-in-law as thev sauntered homewards. “Why so?”’

“Eh, because—all they hymns thou knows—so j'ful like —Hallylooers an' thot—seems as if all wor o' count o' th" little wench.” “Eh!” said Jack. “Well—thou'rt a rum chap. 1 dun know but what thou’rt reet. though. But Chrestmus ’nd ha bin happen a better time for’t to ha coomed. ‘Unto us a child is born.’ thou knows.” “Alt." meditated Jim. “but they rooms when they'll a mlind. they ehilder."

“Nay. they comes when th’ A’tnighty sends 'em.” corrected Farmer Buxton: which pious sentiment Jim endorsed by a sigh, and a shake of the head. The house seemed very silent when they returned: Bob came forward to meet them.wagging his tail, but otherwise nothing seemed to be stirring. “The child’s asleep, ’ said Jack, nudging his son-in-law with a grin. “Thon mun’ mak’ no noise, lad. Eh. thou’lt ha’ to larn to keep quiet, non theer’s a little un i’ th’ ’onse.”

"I’ll nobbut creep up t' ax how they find theirsel’s.” answered Jim. kicking off his boots, and mounting the stairs with a creaking pause on each step. Before he had got half way up. however, the door of Maggie's room opened, and Mrs Buxton appeared, her long white face longer and whiter than ever, her finger on her lip. "Go thy ways down. Jim: thou mun keep i' th’ kitchen. Hoo’s none so well.” “What?” gasped Jim. “What’s amiss?—th’ little un’?” “Nay, go thy ways down, I tell ’ee. Th’ little un reet enough. It's our Maggie. Hoo’s takken a turn or summat. I’ve sent for doctor.” She withdrew, closing the door very softly, and Jim went creaking down again with a woful face. "Our Maggie’s takken a turn.” “What sort o’ turn?” “A bad turn I reckon”—this with a quivering dip. “Eh. they lasses, they do sometimes wi’ their first ehilder’. Dunnot looked so seared, mon. Hoo’ll be reet —thou’lt see. Hoo’s alius bin a strong ’ealthy wench—naught niver ailed her. Is doctor coming?” “Ah. they’n fetched him.” “Reet... Hoo’ll lie hersel’ i’ no time 1 tell thee.” Jim sat down, rubbing his knees, and staring disconsolately into the fire. Jack wandered up and down between door and window, making the same encouraging remarks over and over again, though his face gradually lengthened. and he was obviously uneasy. Presently the doctor came. The two men looked at each other as he descended the stairs, but neither of them found courage to question him. Mrs Buxton’s face as she followed him told

a tale of its own, and sundry phrases which they caught of the murmured colloquy filled them with dismay. “Hard work to pull through. Peritonitis set in ” ’’What's thot?” whispered Jim to Jack. “The titus—our Maggie's getten th' titus brown-titus." answered Jack. "Eh. an' we niver heered her cough.” ejaculated Jim. and then the pair fell to listening again: but they could hear no more. Soon the doctor drove off. and Mrs Buxton re-entered the kitchen. She stood still for a moment resting her hand on the table, and looking from one to the other; then she tried to speak, failed, stud raised her apron to her eves.

Through the open door they could hear the distant church bells chiming merrily. Jim rose, and walked upstairs without a word. When Mrs Buxton followed she found him seated by his wife’s bed. half hidden by the curtain.

“Go down, Jim,” she murmured softly, “theer’s a good lad.” “Ark.” as Maggie moaned. “Hoo’s too bad to notice—thou'rt nobbut i’ th’ road' ere. Thou connot do her no good.” “I’ll bide, as how t’is.” said Jim sullenly: and bide he did; all through the long hours that ensued that silent motionless figure kept its place at the bedside. Maggie’s pain left her a little before the end, and her feeble hand withdrew the curtain that concealed her husband’s face from her. “Art thou theer. lad?” “Aye—l'm here.” “Thon’s getten th’ little wench. Jim. TToo’ll soon be company for ’ee.” Jim said nothing.

“Thou’lt love her..an’ see to her?” He nodded, and Maggie with a sigh closed her eyes. Date on that same day. Jim left his place by the bedside: he was no longer wanted there—Maggie had gone Home.

He and the old farmer sat opposite each other in the kitchen, and neither spoke a word. Jack shifted his position in his big elbow chair every now ami then, cleared his throat, drummed with his fingers on the table: but Jim sat glowering into the fire without moving. Overhead they could hear the women moving to and fro about Maggie’s bed.

Presently Jack, heaving a deep sigh, drew forward a covered basket that stood on the neighbouring table. Jim heard him fumbling with it. though he would not turn his head: but after a moment or two. a smothered exclamation made him look round. His father-in-law had come upon poor Maggie’s last piece of work: an unfinished babv’s shirt with the needle sticking in it. “Hoo wur —hoo wur alius a great hand at th’ needle,” said Jack piteouslv. - And then Jim. covering his face with his nigged hands, burst out sobbing.

PART 11. The sod hitfl been green on Maggie s grave for nearly three years, and ' the little wench” was a well-known personality in the neighbourhood of the Upper Farm. A sturdy little monkey, standing firm on her plump brown legs, and taking notice of her small world with a pair of bright dark eyes that might have been Maggie’s own. "Sharp?” said her grandmother, “Eh. hoo is thot. Theer’s nought hoo doesn’t know. I welly believe. T’other day. soombry axed her wheer hoo coomed fro' an' who her mother wur. Ah' hoo tells ’em as hoo lives at th’ Upper Farm. ‘I haven’t got no mother.’ hoo says, “but I ve two daddies.' who says. ‘Ah hoo towd us all about it when hoo room wlioam. Did yo' iver hear sich a tale?’’ '‘Two daddies." says hoo.”

"Daddy Jack,” and “Daddy Jim.” were indeed little Curly's devoted slaves. (She had been christend Maggie after her mother, but the membcre of the bereaved household found it as yet difficult to pronounce that once familiar name, and so “th' little wench” was generally entitled “Curly” -in allusion to the thick wavy gold-den-brown crop which adorned her little round head.)

She slept in her grandmother's room, so Daddy Jack had generally the first of the day's enjoyment. She would crawl out of her eot on to the big bed with early dawn, creeping cautiously over Mrs Buxton’s sleeping form, and smuggle close to Daddy Jack; bestowing sundry attentions on

him, which a less good-humoured or affectionate man would have found a trifle trying. But he only smiled sleepily "when she pulled open his eyes, and patted his nose, and twisted his whiskers; imprisoning the dimpled little tormenting hand. “Eh, thou'rt a little rogue, thou art! Why the birds are not wakkened up yet. Whativer will thy gronny say? See. room in here wi’ thee’—thou’rt welly starved wi’ cowd; —thy little feet’s near perished.” Sometimes Curly accepted the invitation. but more frequently she declined. first by vigorous shakes of the mop aforesaid; then by little muttered remonstrances, and finally by shrill defiance which ultimately awoke her grandmother, who thereupon invariably petted her, and scolded Daddy Jack; a state of things of which “th" little wench" entirely approved. "The poor innocent knows no better." Mrs Buxton would grumble.

“But a body ’ud think thou’d ha’ more sense, nor to be encouragin' her i’ sich ways. See, lovey, get under th' blankets, do. Eh. hoo’s as cowd! —I wonder at thee. Jack, thot I do! Thou might know better. The child’s got no sense.”

“I got no sense.” Curly eehoed reprovingly one day. crossing one fat leg over the other, and looking severely at her grandfather; upon which Jack's lecture was cut short for once, and the old pair chuckled and winked at each other in equal rapture. “Sense indeed," as Jack remarked, "hoo’s more nor a many grown men!” When Curly’s toilet was completed. Daddy Jim’s innings began. She sat on his knee at breakfast, and ate occasionally out of his plate; she rode on his shoulder afterwards, when he went his round of the shippons and pigsties, varying that form of exercise by an oecastional jaunt on the back of a eart-horse, or even a cow. Once indeed, she insisted on riding a pig, and after a sharp altercation carried her jtoint; Daddy Jim selected a matronly and safe old lady for her steed, and placed his folded coat for Curly to sit on. But the experiment was not a success —both Curly and the coat speedily slipping off into the mire. The little maid was always seen with one or other of her daddies; and not unfrequently with both. The two men accommodating their paces to her little toddling steps, and stepping awkwardly sideways that she might ding to a finger of each.

When she had chicken-pox they nearly went mad. especially as kindly neighbours were not wanting sympathetic suggestions that happen her mother were callin’ her. Hoo wanted her up yonder, very like, an' hoo’d eoom fur her. However, these predictions were not realized. And luckily for the peace of mind of the two daddies. no other childish maladies found their way to the Upper Farm. The days passed quietly and peacefully. Jim went on working for his father-in-law. just as he used to do during his brief wedded life, and Mrs Buxton washed, and mended him, and "did for him,” and occasionallj' “barged at him," almost as poor Alaggie herself might have done. But it wasn't the same. “Eh dear no,” as Jim often sighed to himself. “Theer’s a deal o’ diff’rence. Eh. Maggie!”

No one could say he fretted much. The neigh hours thought he bore up wonderfid. He was never seen to cry. and never mentioned his wife; when he passed her grave on his way to the church door, he looked the other way. But he missed her in his dull. uncomplaining, unreasoning fashion, at every turn, in every hour. Only Curly had power to chase away the vague pain—only her sunny baby presence could fill the void. When Curly was more than halfway through her third year, an event occurred which stirred the placid current of her daddies’ lives.

It was on a Sunday in June; a Sunday so warm and bright that the eyes of the congregation were tempted to wander to the church windows, through which the sky appeared very blue, and the woods very green and enticing. It was so warm that the sermon had had rather a soporific effect, and one or two prayer-books slipped out of the owners' hands long before the Rector had come to "Thirdly."

Well, service was over, and dinner was over, ami Daddy Jack was smoking on the bench outside the door, digesting his roast beef, and dozing now ami then. Mrs Buxton was reading “Betts’ Almanac” (which always came out on Sunday) in the parlour, and Curly was fast asleep on the

horsehair sofa with her legs covered by a shawl. Daddy Jim strolled down the path a little way just to puss the time. He was disap|>ointed that the little ’un shoiiltl have selected to take her nap just then, but it was good for her. no doubt. Very like it was—but it was lonesome here in the field without her. He sauntered on, switching at the hedge, and whistling. Presently the sudden turn in the path, described liefore. brought him in sight of the high road, and the stile leading to it. And who might that be sitting on the stile? A buxom girl in a bright blue dress, with reddish hair much frizzled, and a very fine hat indeed; a hat with as many riblions, and flowers, and feathers, as could possibly be piled on it. The young woman’s whole "get up” was so smart, and the difference between it and her ordinary week-day attire so great, that it was not until he was quite elose to her that Jim recognised Annie Davis, the blacksmith's niece, who had recently come to live in the village. "Good Afternoon,” observed Jim, pausing with a nod and grin of greeting. ‘‘Nice day, Mr Norris,” replied Annie.

Jim looked up at the sky. then at the feathers in Annie's hat. and then, casually, at the face beneath it—a pleasant face enough, snub-nosed, redcheeked, freckled. with bright rather bold blue eyes. The eyes had pink rims to them to-day, though, and the sandy lashes stuck together; Anrtie Davis had been crying.

Jim realised the fact by slow degrees. and also observed that the girl, though she had responded to his greeting. did not seem to care to pursue the conversation, continuing to drum on the step of the stile with her foot, and to gaze disconsolately down the road. A smile crept gradually over his face. He opened his mouth as though to speak, shut it again, and then winked to himself. He was thinking of making a joke, and a joke was no light matter to him, and could not be undertaken without due preparation. He had very nearly got it now. though. A tear welled up in the corner of Annie's eye. and rolled slowly down her round red cheek. “Hasn’t he coom?” asked Jim, ready at last and grinning with glee. “Who?” queried Annie, pettishly. “Why. him. Him as vo’re lookin’ out fur.”

Now, as it happened, he hadn’t come, and Annie had good cause to fear that he had no intention of coming. Annie had had a quarrel with him on the Sunday before, and she had announced her intention of “giving over keeping company” with him, parting from him, indeed, with the assurance that he needn’t ever come asking her to go out again, for she had walked her last with him. Nevertheless, when the end of the week came she had cooled down a good deal, and was, in fact, quite ready to forgive her swain when he came, as she expected, to be once more restored to favour.

She had taken up her position on the stile, which commanded a good view of the road usually taken by Sunday couples, and had there waited for the young man waited first smilingly, then anxiously, then furiously. then despairingly. Jim’s jocular query was the last drop in an already full cup: Annie began to sob in good earnest. Jim could not leave off smiling all at. once, partly because he was so enchanted to find that his surmise was correct, and partly because he thought he had said a very funny thing! But presently he began to feel sorry for the girl. He leaned against the fence and looked at her compassionately. “If I wur yo' I’d give ower,” he remarked. “I would, fur sure. Theer's a mony lads i’ the parish.” The corners of Annie’s mouth began to go up. and she gave her head a little toss. “Well.” she said coquettishly, “an’ who said theer was na?” Jim was nonplussed for a moment, quickness of repartee not being 'his strong point. But after pushing back his hat, and scratching his head—processes which always seemed to brighten his intellect —he observed: “A mon ’nd think to see yo’ as theer wur but one lad i’ th’ place, an’ he wur a bad ’un.” Annie began to laugh, loud and long, after the manner of young persons of her standing; and Jim, charmed at his own brilliancy, joined her. Their mirth was at its height,

when a couple came sauntering down the road, at sight of whom the girl suddenly changed her note. It was no other than her own particular young man, who now strolled leisurely past, arm-in-arm with her most special enemy. On they came, talking very eagerly, and laughing a great deal. The young man exceedingly affectionate to the new love, as, with the corner of his eye, he canght sight of the blue draperies of the old, fluttering behind the hedge; the maiden coy and witty. Jim meanwhile was still cheerfully chuckling. “Eh, a body *ud think as he wur a bad ’un!" he repeated, quite unconscious of the proximity of the person in question. “An" they think reet,” cried Annie, with flashing eyes. He was actually passing without a sign of recognition. “But as yo’ were sayin’, theer’s mony a lad i’ th’ parish.” “Theer is.” agreed Jim, “an’ good 'tins too. Eh. a lass same as yo' has no need to tuk up wi’ wastrils.” The couple were out of hearing now. but one or two more were approaching, and Annie, whose blood was up, determined to prove to all her acquaintances that she was not depressed by her lover’s desertion. “Theer’s yor’sel’ to start wi’, Mester Norris.” she said, her rosy cheek dimpling, and her snub-nose cocking itself knowingly as she smiled. “Well,” said Jim. “That is a good ’un!” “Wunnot yo’ set down a bit?” inquired Annie. “Theer’s lots o’ room, an' settin’s as cheap as standin’.” The step was rather narrow for two, but with a good deal of giggling they managed to balance themselves. It was very pleasant there; sunny and warm, with the scent of the clover strong in their nostrils, and the breeze rustling through the tall green wheat. Jim sat placidly beside Annie, listening to her rollicking talk and laughter, and putting in an occasional monosyllable. The neighbours. passing by, stared and nudged each other, and made smiling halfaudible comments. “So thot’s it, is it?” “Well, he is but a young chap.” “Jim’s in luck.” and so forth. Jin fidgetted with his stick, and looked over their heads, and now and then drew a long stalk of grass from the rank growth beneath the hedge, and chewed it. But by-and-bye. the sound of a wellknown voice coming from the opposite direction made him start. What should come rolling round the hedge but the portly figure of Daddy Jack! “Hallo.” said Jim. tumbling off the stile, and looking rather foolish. Jack paused, took a long frowning survey of Annie, and advanced more rapidly. , “Art thou commin’ to thy tay?” he enquired as soon as he was near enough. “Is it ready?” “Is it ready? I should think it wur ready, an’ it gone five. What han yo' agate here?” “Eh. nought to speak on.” “Well. then, coom on wi’ thee. Th' missus could na think whativer’d

eoom to thee. Who mav yon wench be?"

“Annie Davis, I b’lieve." "Thou cannot say fur sure, I s'fiose. Well, hoo's no lieauty as how t’ia." “Hoo's reet enough,” retorted Jim. the spirit of opposition roused within him by his father-in-law’s tone. “Good arternoon, Annie,” he called, nodding over his shoulder. “Good day to yo’, Mester Norris, an' thank yo' fur your company.” Daddy Jack and Daddy Jim marched off, each for the first time in their

-simple lives on bad terms with the other. Jack, indignant at what he took to be a slight to Maggie's memmory. Jim. furious at his injustice, but determined not to be put upon. They walked on in silence at first, but the elder man presently paused, prodding the soft earth with his stick. Jim went on, without turning his head. “Hoy!" shouted Daddy Jack, “('oom back ’ere, I want ’ee.” His son-in-law retraced his steps. “Thou’s started company-keepin’, 1 see,” said Jack. “Who says thot?” growled Jim, borrowing a leaf from Annie’s hook. “1 say't. What art thou settin" o'

stiles along wi' wenches fur, if thou has na a mind to keep company?” "Theer wurn't nobbut one wench,” replied Jim stolidly. "Nobbut one! An’ thot’s enough, sure. Thou does na reckon to coort moor nor one at a time?” “Well, an' what if I war settin' o' a stile wi' a wench?” "Well, thot’s what I say: thou’s eoo|Hi ny-keepin'." “1 wonnot say whether I am or not," cried Jim angrily, “but I’ll say as I wonnot lie barged at.”

“My word. Jim, I'll barge if I've a mind to. 1 tell thee I'm not the mon to start countin’ my words at this tim * o' th" day. Nay, I see how it is wi' thee. Thou cares nought for our Maggie. nor our Maggie’s folks. Thou’s takken up wi’ yon ill-favoured impudent lass o’ Davis’, an’ thou thinks to set he i’ our Maggie’s place. But I tell ’ee, my lad, thou needs na think i' fetehin’ her up t’ our house. Hoo’s no place theer, an’ thou’s ha’ no place theer if thou goes courtin’ other wenches. Thou con pack up. bag and baggage, an’ tak’ thysel’ soomwher else. We dunnot want Annie Davis’ ehap up yonder—we’n nobbut kep' thee fur bein’ our Maggie’s husband. "Well, an’ if yo’ have kep' me yo' hannot. kep' me for nought,” put in Jim. all his pride in arms. “I've worked 'ard. and addled my mate if iver a mon did. But I’ll not be behowden to no one. I con soon find some little nook as ’nil do fur Curly an' me." “Curly!” cried the grandfather. "Eh, did iver a Imdy ’sieh a thing! Thon's thinkin’ to tak’ Curly off ns! Nay. nay. we’re noan sieh fools as to let her go. Thou can go if thou control do wi’ out thy coortin's an' cotn-pany-keepin's—but we’s* keep th’ little wench.”

Jim rolled his head from side to side and snorted. “We’ll see thot. Hoo’s my wench. Coom! Dost thou reckon hoo is or no?”

“A.te, hoo is thy wench reet enough, but hoo's Maggie's wench too. when all's said an' done, and Maggie wur mine, th' only child 1 iver had. Eh. my word it seems as if 'twere nobbut t’ other dav as

our Maggie were trottin' alsiut just same as th' little un yonder. Ah,” he added in a softened tone. “1 like as if I could see her now—in a little yaller dress hoo had, an' her white pinny all full of flowers. Hoo was alius fair mad aliout flowers.”

Jim began to walk on. slowlv. with his head a little bent. Jack followed, talking half to himself. “An" boo’d coom riinnin' to meet, me just the same as Curly might do now,

wi* th* little curlM Umitin*, aii* th' Aitt tic* legs welly fly in', an* a« iver hoo'd see me hoo'd strike out, ‘Daddy, daddy.* Eh, dear o’ me! To think hoo's hivin' in her grave now!" Jim quickened his |mce but not a word sail! he.

"But it's nought to thee as how 'tis. Thon's a fancy fur siimat new. Maggie wur a good lass to thee but hoo's dead now, an' thou reckons to give th' little 'un a stepmother. Hoo'l break her little 'eart—an' th' missus yonder--it 'till go near to kill her—but thou cares nought. Nay—thou’lt ha' thy Annie Davises as 'nil niver do fur the little wench same as us. I loo'll be shovin’ *er 'ere an' theer out of the road, an' knockin' 'er about us like as not. But I tell 'ee what it is, lad—thou may ha' thy Annie Davises to thysel' hoo’ll ha' noii.ii of our little un—we's keep her.” Jack nodded his head looking determined. llis face was red with anger and agitation, the veins in his forehead swollen: and he spoke loudly and disjointedly, for he was breathless, partly with eagerness, partly because lie was obliged to walk quickly to keep up with Jim. But in spite of his withering emphasis in alluding to Annie—numbering her name in the plural by way of denoting greater sarcasm and scorn —anyone who knew him would have guessed that for all his lofty air the tears were not very far off. They were nearly home now. and suddenly Curly's little figure appeared trotting towards them, and her voice was heard uttering ecstatic crows of welcome.

Jim broke into a run. and stretched out his arms. "('oom, little lass, room to Daddv."

“Nay." cried Jack, hoarsely, following Jim at a kind of hobbling canter. "Don't 'ee go to him. Curly, come to Daddy .Jack. Daddy Jack loves thee. Daddy Jack 'nil do aught i* th' wide world fur 'ee." "Daddy Jack and Daddy Jim!" cried Curly running from one to the other with little screams of laughter, and thinking it the best fun in the world. But the two men were tremendously in earnest.

"Eh. Curly, hasto ne'er a kiss for thy own daddy?” pleaded Jim. "Nay. coom thy ways to me, little wench.”cried Jack, who was fast losing every vistage of self-control, “(’oom. Daddy Jim cares nought fur lasses as have no blue e'en an’ red cheeks. He's getten a new lass—he wants none o' thee now.”

Curly jNiused. jMMited. looked from one to the other of the angry fares,

and finally uttering a loud wail, announced that she wouldn't have uo daddy at all. an' sh'd tell her gronny, she would. She went away, whimpering: and Jim turned round with a countenance working with fury. “Ah, an' thou'd happen like to hit inc now ?” suggested Jack, noting the clenched fist "I would.” said Jim. “An* I’d do *t too to ony other man. Thou—thou didn't need to say these things to th' little lass.”

There was a quaver in his voice, but Daddy Jack would not let himself be softened. “It wur nobbut truth.” he said.

"It is na truth.” shouted Jim, “and thou knows it is na. truth. Thou knows as ”

"I know as thee an’ Annie Davis : * "Bom Annie Davis,” interrupted Daddy .Jim. with an indignant sob.

Daddy Jack's countenance de.tred. and stepping hastily forward, he clapperl Jim heartily on the shoulder.

Then he drew buck a little way. and looked at him with a kind of respectful admiration. "Well Jim," he said, slowly. "Thon cannot say no fairer than thot. Na.ve, thou connot, lad. Theer, gi’s thy hand. *l)oin Annie Divis,' says thons. and T)oni her.’ says I. an' nobody eon say more. Eh, shake, bonds, mon. Thou’rt a good lad, Jim, when all’s said an* done." He gras|>ed Jim's hand warmly, and the two faced each other a moment in

silence, a big tear rolling down the old man's cheek, and Jim's broad ehest heaving. Presently Curly peeped round the corner. "Daddy Jack!” she said, advancing slowly, all ready to whimper again at the slightest provocation. Daddy Jack loosed his grip of hetfather's hand and clapped his own together. "Jest in time, little wench! Hurry now—run to Daddv Jim.”