fat and waddling, bossed the house.

“Hashah some cold meat up for the master’s dinner, and make him an apple-charlotte pudding,” said Mrs. Morel.

“He may go without pudding this day,” said Mrs. Bower.

Morel was not as a rule one of the first to appear at the bottom of the pit, ready to come up. Some men were there before four o‘clock, when the whistle blew loose-all; but Morel, whose stall, a poor one, was at this time about a mile and a half away from the bottom, worked usually till the first mate stopped, then he finished also. This day, however, the miner was sick of the work. At two o’clock he looked at his watch, by the light of the green candle—he was in a safe working—and again at half-past two.1 He was hewing at a piece of rock that was in the way for the next day’s work. As he sat on his heels, or kneeled, giving hard blows with his pick, “Uszza—uszza!” he went.

“Shall ter finish, Sorry?”ai cried Barker, his fellow butty.

“Finish? Niver while the world stands!” growled Morel.

And he went on striking. He was tired.

“It’s a heart-breaking job,” said Barker.

But Morel was too exasperated, at the end of his tether, to answer. Still he struck and hacked with all his might.

“Tha might as well leave it, Walter,” said Barker. “It’ll do tomorrow, without thee hackin’ thy guts out.”

“I’ll lay no b—finger on this to-morrow, Isr’el!” cried Morel.

“Oh, well, if tha wunna, someb‘dy else’ll ha’e to,” said Israel.

Then Morel continued to strike.

“Hey-up there—loose-a’!”aj cried the men, leaving the next stall.

Morel continued to strike.

“Tha’ll happen catch me up,” said Barker, departing.

When he had gone, Morel, left alone, felt savage. He had not finished his job. He had overworked himself into a frenzy. Rising, wet with sweat, he threw his stool down, pulled on his coat, blew out his candle, took his lamp, and went. Down the main road the lights of the other men went swinging. There was a hollow sound of many voices. It was a long, heavy tramp underground.

He sat at the bottom of the pit, where the great drops of water fell plash. Many colliers were waiting their turns to go up, talking noisily. Morel gave his answers short and disagreeable.

“It’s rainin’, Sorry,” said old Giles, who had had the news from the top.

Morel found one comfort. He had his old umbrella, which he loved, in the lamp cabin. At last he took his stand on the chair,ak and was at the top in a moment. Then he handed in his lamp and got his umbrella, which he had bought at an auction for one-and-six. He stood on the edge of the pit-bank for a moment, looking out over the fields; grey rain was falling. The trucks stood full of wet, bright coal. Water ran down the sides of the waggons,“over the white ”C.W. and Co.” Colliers, walking indifferent to the rain, were streaming down the line and up the field, a grey, dismal host. Morel put up his umbrella, and took pleasure from the peppering of the drops thereon.

All along the road to Bestwood the miners tramped, wet and grey and dirty, but their red mouths talking with animation. Morel also walked with a gang, but he said nothing. He frowned peevishly as he went. Many men passed into the Prince of Wales or into Ellen’s. Morel, feeling sufficiently disagreeable to resist temptation, trudged along under the dripping trees that overhung the park wall, and down the mud of Greenhill Lane.

Mrs. Morel lay in bed, listening to the rain, and the feet of the colliers from Minton, their voices, and the bang, bang of the gates as they went through the stile up the field.

“There’s some herb beer behind the pantry door,” she said. “Th’ master’ll want a drink, if he doesn’t stop.”

But he was late, so she concluded he had called for a drink, since it was raining. What did he care about the child or her?

She was very ill when her children were born.

“What is it?” she asked, feeling sick to death.

“A boy.”

And she took consolation in that. The thought of being the mother of men was warming to her heart. She looked at the child. It had blue eyes, and a lot of fair hair, and was bonny. Her love came up hot, in spite of everything. She had it in bed with her.

Morel, thinking nothing, dragged his way up the garden path, wearily and angrily. He closed his umbrella, and stood