The daily morning journal and courier., 1896-12-03


 I've sung bits O yon mass myself, . continued the visitor modestly, as though apologizing for knowing so much about 1t; an theer's a deal O sense f the words when yo' turn 'em into English.
 This was not precisely criticism of which the nearer could entirely ap- prove, but he felt unable to argue with this product of the soil, this calm giant who said so little and yet gave the im- pression of so much.
 'I conclude you are relation or this woman2"
 Nay; she wur & lady should saw her twice.
 This unexpected reply gave the cu- rate another shock of surprise. But where are her friends?"
 She has none, She said she hadna a friend I the world"
 An taking up slip of paper lying on the table, T seem to know the name, I also re2ollect hearing that q lady was lodgong in one of those houses by the line. An yo' didna think to call?" ''Of course had I known she was i'll l was sinful woman who had left her 1 husband for another man. Folks said so,' rejoined the Man from Stalybridge calmly. I suppose it was true?'
 q canna tell"
 Has she left enough money for the | funeral expenses? If not, should ad- | wise you to let the parish bury her. l We wilma speak a the parish" | The words were but sound, and qui- etly spoken, yet they seemed to the GU rate as though each syllable weighed a | ton
 "Oh, I beg your pardon. I only meant -" Here he stopped feeling | it safer not to go on. To his relief his | visitor next referred to the question of | the ground,
 T nun ha' the sunshine ont, She wished it.
 Poor soul!'' said the curate, q am afraid that idle fancy reveals a weak and frivolous nature, and explains her | deplorable end'
 The Lord created the sunshine an He said it wur good" gravely respond ed the Man from Stalybridge. AS fur being fond O brightness, well, yo' l know, parson, theer isna owt as canna be turned to summat bad. Theer's a chap OCT f Irthdale as wur fair crazy fur walking. When he'd done's work | he'd be off fur ten mile an more, wet or dry, summer and winter. He said it made a mon strong in s legs. One dark November meet he walked into tn | cut an would ha' been drowned if l hadna coon by. I pulled him out an says, 'Sithee, I canna tell if thy walk ing makes thee strong f the legs, but | can see as it makes thee weak f the head. An after that he didna walk so much. Walking's innocent enow, but he hadna the sense to frame it rect. l reckon it's the same wi most things f this world, parson.' | This was perhaps the longest speech ever made by the Man from Staly- bridge, and it was uttered, not as though in the hope of persuasion, but simply as an incontrovertible state ment Having finished, he sat silently expectant of reply.
 The curate hesitated before speaking. He began to perceive that he was face | to face with a great force, man who knew his own mind and did not change l it; man stiffenad with the tremen- dous backing of steady belief in the faith of. eighteen hundred years; man l who thought his own thoughts. formed | his own opinions, and went on his way as the slow silent glaZier advances, carrying with it all that would bar it's course. Of such were the men who founded the empire; of such were the men who kept it; and if ever we cease | to breed these men, we shall cease to hold the land and the liberty which l they kept and won.
 You may be right" said the curate after a moment, T feel a little bewil- dered myself at times As regards this matter of the funeral, it will be as you wish" and the Man from Stalybridge pulled out a handful of silver mixed with a little gold.
 "Oh. the undertaken will see to that"
 Nay, I'll see to it myself What'H it be?
 The senior curate named sum. He was feeling quite helpless. The money was laid in a little heap on the table, and the visitor rose up to go.
 "T hope I shall see you again" said the curate hastily. T have class of men every Saturday. Or would you | come alone? I suppose you belong to this placer"
 I'm 8 staiybridge chap, but I'm working here"
 "Yes? I should be glad to see you Or I would come to you if you pre- ferred it. Perhaps I might see things in other llghts--life, I mean find difficulty in talking to people-ir smoothing their last hours. or theil daily path. I do not always under stand their feeling-'
 He stopped. Somehow he was shak. en out of himself, out of his usual hab- it's of thoughts. The grave brown eyes | surveyed him, calmly observant.
 T dunnot think as could teach thee owt parson. A mon nun see wi hi: own eyes"
 "Other eyes may help sometimes. am confronted by life and death, ant they are terrible things"
 Nay parson. not death. That's nowt to worry OCT Iris life tha i frightens folk. Good-neet.'
 He went down the steps into the sleet- -whitened street where furnace glare and gas-lamps strove together and tall chimneys cast long blacl shadows, and the curate stood looking after him. At the gate he paused ana