with her sleeves tucked up and her working apron on, busied in
preparing to make clap-bread, one of the hardest and hottest domestic
tasks of a Daleswoman. She looked up, and first met, and then
avoided Peggy's eye; it was too full of sympathy. Her own cheeks
were flushed, and her own eyes were dry and burning.

"Where's the board, Peggy? We need clap-bread; and, I reckon, I've
time to get through with it to-night." Her voice had a sharp, dry
tone in it, and her motions a jerking angularity about them.

Peggy said nothing, but fetched her all that she needed. Susan beat
her cakes thin with vehement force. As she stooped over them,
regardless even of the task in which she seemed so much occupied, she
was surprised by a touch on her mouth of something--what she did not
see at first. It was a cup of tea, delicately sweetened and cooled,
and held to her lips, when exactly ready, by the faithful old woman.
Susan held it off a hand's breath, and looked into Peggy's eyes,
while her own filled with the strange relief of tears.

"Lass!" said Peggy, solemnly, "thou hast done well. It is not long
to bide, and then the end will come."

"But you are very old, Peggy," said Susan, quivering.

"It is but a day sin' I were young," replied Peggy; but she stopped
the conversation by again pushing the cup with gentle force to
Susan's dry and thirsty lips. When she had drunken she fell again to
her labour, Peggy heating the hearth, and doing all that she knew
would be required, but never speaking another word. Willie basked
close to the fire, enjoying the animal luxury of warmth, for the