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I exclaimed, "I never knew that you were a married man, Tim." He dropped his head upon his hand again, still pulling nervously at the grass with the other. "Th' law says I beant, Mester," he answered in a painful, strained fashion. "I conna tell mysen what God-a'-moighty 'ud say about it." "I don't understand," I faltered; "you don't mean to say the poor girl never was your wife, Hibblethwaite."
My lass never altered her sweet ways, an' I just loved her to make up to her fur what had gone by. I thanked God-a'-moighty fur his blessing every day, and every day I prayed to be made worthy of it. An' here's just wheer I'd like to ax a question, Mester, about sum m at 'ats worretted me a good deal.
Oh, my poor lass, how hard she tried to pray fur me, Mester yes, fur me, as she lay theer wi' her arms round her dead babby's grave, an' her cheek on th' grass as grew o'er his breast. 'Lord God-a'-moighty, she says, 'help us dunnot gi' us up dunnot, dunnot. We conna do 'thowt thee now, if th' time ever wur when we could.
Yo' see, Mester, an' we aw see sometime He thinks on us an' gi's us a lift, but hasna tha thysen seen times when tha stopt short an' axed thysen, 'Wheer's God-a'-moighty 'at he isna straighten things out a bit? Th' world's i' a power o' a snarl. Th' righteous is forsaken, 'n his seed's beggin' bread.
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