o' ash-riddling?"

"Of course I have," I replied. "Everybody knows what it is to riddle
ashes."

"Aye, but ash-riddling on the hearthstone, the neet afore St Mark's
Day?"

Here was something unfamiliar, and I readily confessed my ignorance. It
was evident, too, that Grannie's mind could only find relief by
disburdening itself of the weight which lay upon it, so I no longer
attempted to direct her thoughts into a new channel.

"It was 1870," she began, "the year o' the Franco-German War, that I
first heerd tell o' ash-riddling, and it came about this way. My man's
father, Owd Jerry, as fowks called him, were living wi' us then; he was
a widower, and well-nigh eighty year owd. He'd been a despert good
farmer in his time, but he'd gotten owd and rheumatic, and his temper
were noan o' the best. He were as touchous as a sick barn, if aught went
wrang wi' him. Well, one day i' lambing-time, he were warr nor he'd iver
been afore; he knew that I were thrang wi' all maks o' wark, but nowt
that I could do for him were reet. So at last, when I'd fmished my
milking i' the mistal, I got him to bed, and then I sat misen down by
the fire and had a reet good roar. I were tired to death, and wished
that I'd niver been born. Iverything had gone agee that day: butter
wouldn't coom, Snowball had kicked ower the pail while I was milking
her, and, atop o' all that, there was grandfather wi' his fratching
ways.

"I were sat cowered ower the fire, wi' my face buried in my hands, when