and put it to mi lips, and it ud begin to speyk. Yi, an' it cried
an' o', and took my sorrow on itsel, and shifted it away fro' me.
I've played o' th' neet thro' on these moors, Mr. Penrose, when I
couldn't sleep i' bed, or stay i' th' haas. It's a grond thing, is
music, when yo're brokken-hearted. If ever yo' marry and hev
childer, teach 'em music--a chap as con play con feight th' devil
so much better nor him as cornd.'

Old Enoch took his cap from his head, and wiped his brow, and
continued:

'Th' flute were my salvation agen, Mr. Penrose, when our lad deed.
He wor just one-and-twenty, and he's bin dead eighteen year. Brass
is nothin' when it comes to berryin' yor own, Mr. Penrose. Poverty
may touch a mon's pride, but death touches his heart. When yo' see
yor own go aat o' th' haas feet fermost, and yo' know it's for
good an' o', there's summat taan aat o' yo' that nothin' ever maks
up for at afterwards. I wor a long time afore I forgave th'
Almeety for takin' aar Joe. And all the time I owed Him a grudge,
and kep' on blamin' Him like; I got wurr and wurr, until I welly
went mad. Then I coome across th' old flute, and it seemed to say,
"I'll help thee agen." "Nay, owd brid," I said, "tha cornd. It's
noan brass this time, it's mi lad." And th' owd flute seemed to
say, "Try me." So I tuk it up, and put it to mi lips and blew--yi,
aat of a sad heart, Mr. Penrose--but it wor reet. Th' owd flute
gi' me back mi prayer--grace for grace, as yo' parsons say,
whatever yo' mean by't. And as I sat on th' bench i' th'
garden--same bench as yo' saw me sittin' on this afternoon--my
missis coome to th' dur, and hoo said, "Enoch, what doesto think?"
"Nay, lass," I said, "I durnd know." "Why," hoo says, "I think as