The husband and babe were still sleeping, for Becca had ministered to
all their wants. She had buoyed herself with the hope that they would be
successful: but when she saw them return alone, her spirits sank as low
as those of the mother, and although she was silent, yet the frequent
application of the apron to her eyes showed that she felt as a mother
for one so sorrowfully placed.

Promising to "luk in i' th' morn'," they left the disconsolate Bessy
to her grief.

Who shall attempt to describe the anguish of that bereaved parent?
Statuelike she sat, nursing a sorrow too deep for tears. Hours passed,
and the first faint streak of dawn found her still sitting, with her
eyes intently fixed on vacancy. Her husband's voice was the first thing
that roused her from the state of despondency into which she had sunk.
He spoke with difficulty, and his voice was feeble as a child's.
"Bessy," he gasped, "tha munnot leave me ony moor. It's drawin varry
near. Awr little Tom an' Susy have been here wol tha's been off; aw
heeard 'em calling for me, but aw could'nt goa until aw'd had a word wi'
thee. Aw'm feeard tha'll tak it hard, lass, but if tha finds tha cannot
bide it, ax th' parson to tell thee what he tell'd to me, an' it'll
comfort thee." Bessy was unable to reply. Sorrows had been heaped upon
her so heavily that her feelings were benumbed; she scarcely
comprehended what was said, but in the bitterness of her soul she fell
upon her knees and sobbed--"Lord, help me!"

Her husband feebly took her hand and drew her towards him. "He will help
thee, lassie, niver fear. One kiss, Bessy; gooid bye! Tom! Susy!--It's
varry dark.--Aw think aw want to sleep."--