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But SHE killed him, th' sin was writ down fur her. Never was a boy I loved like him, when we was boys." There was a short silence. "Yoh're like yer mother," said Polston, striving for a lighter tone. "Here," motioning to the heavy iron jaws. "She never let go. Somehow, too, she'd the law on her side in outward showin', an' th' right. But I hated religion, knowin' her.
The old stoker had just finished slaking the out-fires, and was putting some blue plates on the table, gravely straightening them. He had grown old, as Polston said, Holmes saw, stooped much, with a low, hacking cough; his coarse clothes were curiously clean: that was to please Lois, of course.
Later in the evening you would see a man coming along, close by the wall, with his head down, the same Margret had seen in the mill, a dark man, with gray, thin hair, Joe Yare, Lois's old father. No one spoke to him, people always were looking away as he passed; and if old Mr. or Mrs. Polston were on the steps when he came up, they would say, "Good-evening, Mr.
There was old Polston and his son Sam coming home from the coal-pits, as black as ink, with their little tin lanterns on their caps. After a while Sam would come out in his suit of Kentucky jean, his face shining with the soap, and go sheepishly down to Jenny Ball's, and the old man would bring his pipe and chair out on the pavement, and his wife would sit on the steps.
"My cousin Polston. If you do not know him, you'll excuse me?" Cox sniffed the air down the street, and twirled his rattan, as he went. The coal-digger was abrupt and distant in his greeting, going straight to business. "I will keep yoh only a minute, Mr. Holmes" "Stephen," corrected Holmes. The old man's face warmed.
"My cousin Polston. If you do not know him, you'll excuse me?" Cox sniffed the air down the street, and twirled his rattan, as he went. The coal-digger was abrupt and distant in his greeting, going straight to business. "I will keep yoh only a minute, Mr. Holmes" "Stephen," corrected Holmes. The old man's face warmed.
Later in the evening you would see an old man coming along, close by the wall, with his head down, a very dark man, with gray, thin hair, Joe Yare, Lois's old father. No one spoke to him, people always were looking away as he passed; and if old Mr. or Mrs. Polston were on the steps when he came up, they would say, "Good-evening, Mr. Yare," very formally, and go away presently.
"I'll make you a New-Year's call," he said, going out; and she called out that she should be sure to expect him. She seemed so strong that Holmes and Mrs. Polston and Margret, who were there, were going home; besides, old Yare said, "I'd like to take care o' my girl alone to-night, ef yoh'd let me," for they had not trusted him before.
Drunk hard, died of't, yoh know. But she killed him, th' sin was writ down fur her. Never was a boy I loved like him, when we was boys." There was a short silence. "Yoh're like yer mother," said Polston, striving for a lighter tone. "Here," motioning to the heavy iron jaws. "She never let go. Somehow, too, she'd the law on her side in outward showin', an' th' right.
And Jenny, being a warm-hearted little thing, broke into a sobbing fit, saying that it spoiled it all to have Lois gone. "Don't muss your veil, child," said Mrs. Polston. But Jenny cried on, hiding her face in Lois's skinny hand, until Sam Polston came in, when she grew quiet and shy. The poor deformed girl lay watching them, as they talked.
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