“mrs. winburn is ill, isn’t she?” asked tom, after looking his guide over.

“ees, her be—terrible bad,” said the constable.

“what is the matter with her, do you know?”

“zummat o’ fits, i hears. her’ve had ’em this six year, on and off.”

“i suppose it’s dangerous. i mean she isn’t likely to get well?”

“’tis in the lord’s hands,” replied the constable, “but her’s that bad wi’ pain, at times, ’twould be a mussy if ’twoud plaase he to tak’ her out on’t.”

“perhaps she mightn’t think so,” said tom, superciliously; he was not in the mind to agree with any one. the constable looked at him solemnly for a moment and then said:

“her’s been a god-fearin’ woman from her youth up, and her’s had a deal o’ trouble. thaay as the lord loveth he chasteneth, and ’tisn’t such as thaay as is afeard to go afore him.”

“well, i never found that having trouble made people a bit more anxious to get ‘out on’t,’ as you call it,” said tom.

“it don’t seem to me as you can ’a had much o’ trouble to judge by,” said the constable, who was beginning to be nettled by tom’s manner.

“how can you tell that?”

“leastways ’twould be whoam-made, then,” persisted the constable; “and ther’s a sight o’ odds atween whoam-made troubles and thaay as the lord sends.”

“so there may; but i may have seen both sorts for anything you can tell.”

“nay, nay; the lord’s troubles leave his marks.”