towards her, and, putting her finger underneath each word, began to read
them aloud in a low voice to herself; she read again the words of bitter
sorrow and deep humiliation; but most of all, she paused and brightened
over the father's tender reception of the repentant prodigal.

So passed the Christmas evening in the Upclose Farm.

The snow had fallen heavily over the dark waving moorland before the day
of the funeral. The black storm-laden dome of heaven lay very still and
close upon the white earth, as they carried the body forth out of the
house which had known his presence so long as its ruling power. Two and
two the mourners followed, making a black procession, in their winding
march over the unbeaten snow, to Milne Row Church; now lost in some
hollow of the bleak moors, now slowly climbing the heaving ascents. There
was no long tarrying after the funeral, for many of the neighbours who
accompanied the body to the grave had far to go, and the great white
flakes which came slowly down were the boding forerunners of a heavy
storm. One old friend alone accompanied the widow and her sons to their
home.

The Upclose Farm had belonged for generations to the Leighs; and yet its
possession hardly raised them above the rank of labourers. There was the
house and out-buildings, all of an old-fashioned kind, and about seven
acres of barren unproductive land, which they had never possessed capital
enough to improve; indeed, they could hardly rely upon it for
subsistence; and it had been customary to bring up the sons to some
trade, such as a wheelwright's or blacksmith's.

James Leigh had left a will in the possession of the old man who
accompanied them home. He read it aloud. James had bequeathed the farm