meditates--if the soul of meditation be his.

After a silence of some minutes Enoch turned to Mr. Penrose and
said:

'Jokin' aside, Mr. Penrose, that owd flute yo' yerd me playin'
this afternoon is a part o' my life. Let's sit daan i' this nook
and I'll tell yo' all abaat it. Three times in mi history it's bin
mi salvation. Th' first wor when I lost mi brass. We lived daan at
th' Brig then, and I ran th' factory. I wor thirty-five year owd,
and hed a tidy bit o' brass, when they geet me to put a twothree
hunderd in a speculation. Ay, dear! I wor fool enugh not to let
weel alone. I did as they wanted me. Me, and Bill Stott's faither,
and owd Jerry o' th' Moss went in together heavy, and we lost
every farthin'. I shall never forgeet it. It wor Sunday mornin'
when th' news coome fro' th' lawyer. I wor i' bed when th' missis
gav me th' letter, and I could tell by her face summat wor wrang.
"What is it, lass?" I axed. "What a towd thee it would be," hoo
said. "We are ruined." "Thaa never sez so!" I shaated. "It's paper
as says so," hoo said, "noan me," and hoo handed me th' lawyer's
letter. I tried to get aat o' bed, Mr. Penrose, but when I set mi
feet on th' floor, I couldn't ston'. "I've lost my legs, missis,"
I cried. "Nay, lad, thank God, thaa's getten thi legs yet; it's
thi brass thaa's lost!" I shall never forgeet those days. Then
came th' sale, and th' flittin', an' all th' black looks. Yo' know
yor friends when th' brass goes, Mr. Penrose. Poverty's a rare
hond for pikin' aat hypocrites. It maks no mistakes; it tells yo'
who's who. We'd scarce a friend i' those days. I wor weeks and
never held up mi yed, and noabry but th' missis to speak to. Then
it wor th' owd flute coome to mi help. I'd nobbud to tak' it up,