are dying out."

"They have to die, John," answered Mrs. Hatton, "for there's no
friendships like that now. People have newspapers and books dirt cheap
and clubs just as cheap, and all kinds of balls to amuse them--they
never feel the need of a friend. Just look at our John. He has lots of
acquaintances, but he does not want to change watches with any man--does
he, now?"

The young men laughed, and Harry said if they had let friends go they
had not given up sweethearts. Then Mrs. Hatton felt they were on
dangerous ground, and she continued her story at once.

"Thy father and I had been nearly three years married then, and John was
a baby ten months old. I had not troubled myself much about debt or
poverty or danger for the old Hall. I was happy enough with my little
son, and somehow I felt sure that Stephen Hatton would overget all his
worries and anxieties.

"Now listen to me! I woke up that night and I judged by the high moon
that it was about midnight. Then I nursed my baby and tucked him snugly
in his cradle. Thy father had not come to his bed but that was no care
to me; he often sat reading or figuring half the night through. It was
Stephen Hatton's way--but suddenly I heard a voice--the voice of a man
praying. That is a sound, my dears, you can never mistake. When the soul
speaks to its God and its Father, it has a different voice to the one a
man uses with his fellowmen, when he talks to them about warps and yarns
and shillings.

"There was a soft, restful murmur of running water from the little beck