这次吵架这后，沃尔特·莫瑞尔有几天又窘又羞，但不久他又恢复了盛气凌人和满不在乎的样子。他的内心稍微收敛了一下。甚至躯体也蜷缩着，翩翩风度也消失了。他从来没有发胖过。因此，一旦他的骄傲消失了，他的身体似乎和他的骄傲、道德感一样在萎缩。

现在他意识到妻子拖着身子干活有多么困难，他的同情心被他的悔过心所触动，推动着他去帮忙。从矿井直接回家，晚上一直呆在家里。到了星期五，他确实再呆不住了，但出去十点左右就回来，而且是清清醒醒地回到家。

    他总是自己准备早饭。他起得很早，所以时间充裕，他不像别的矿工，把妻子在六点钟就拖起来。五点，有时更早，他就醒了，马上起床上楼。莫瑞尔太太早上醒来，就躺在床上等着这片刻的安宁时光。似乎只要他不在卧室她才能真正的休息。

    他穿着衬衣下楼，再蹬着穿上放在暖气边烤了一整夜的下井的裤子，炉里总是有火，因为莫瑞尔太太封着炉子。屋子里最先发 出的声音是拨火棍捅炉耙的砰砰声。莫瑞尔捣碎未燃尽的煤渣，放上炉子，铁架上烧上满满一壶水。除了吃的外，他的杯子、刀、叉、所有的餐具，都在桌上的一张报纸上摆好。他做早点，沏上茶，用破布堵上门缝，防止风灌进来。然后把火拨旺，坐下来自自在在享受一个小时。他叉子叉上咸肉烤着，油滴在面包上然后把薄片咸肉放在他的厚厚的面包上，用一把折叠刀一片片地切着吃，又把茶倒进小碟子里喝，他喜欢自斟自饮、自炊自吃，和他的家人一起吃饭似乎没有这么愉快。他不喜欢用叉，普通人很少用叉，这种餐具最近才流行起来，人们还不习惯。莫瑞尔更喜欢用一把折刀。独自一人，吃吃喝喝，天冷的时候，常常坐一张小凳子，背靠着温暖的壁炉垛子，食品放在火炉围栏上，杯子放在炉边。然后， 他看看前一夜的报纸——拿到什么就看什么——费劲地拼读着。他更喜欢大白天放下百叶窗，点上蜡烛。这是矿上的习惯。

    五点四十分，他站起身，切下两厚片面包和黄油，把它们放进白布背包里，铁皮壶里装满茶水，他在井下就喜欢喝不加糖不加奶的冷茶。然后，他脱下衬衣，换上那件低领口、短袖，像女式的厚绒布下井衬衫。

    他端一杯茶上楼给妻子，因为她病了，而且 他一时兴来。

    “我给你端来一杯茶。”他说。

    “哟，不用，你知道我不喜欢茶。”她回答道。

    “喝吧，喝了你会再接睡下去。”

    她接过了茶，看见她端起茶来喝，他心里乐了。

    “我打赌，里面没放糖。”她说。

    “咦，我放了一大块呢。”他回答，有点委屈感觉。

    “那就怪了。”她说，又喝了一口。

    她的头发蓬松散披着，面容非常迷人。 他喜爱她这种嗔怪的样子。他又看了看她，悄悄地走了。 他常常只带两片黄油面包到井下去吃，所以见她给他装上一个苹果或桔子便满心欢喜。他系上围巾，穿上他那双又笨又重的靴子，套上有大口袋的外套，口袋里装着小挎包和茶壶，随手关上门，在空气清新的早晨行进。他出现在矿井时，嘴里常常含着一根从树杆上折下而且整天在矿里咀嚼着的枝条，一来保持嘴里的湿润，二来使他觉得井下就像在田野里一样高兴。

    很快，孩子就要出世了，他邋邋遢遢地忙乱起来，上班前捅炉灰，擦壁炉，打扫屋子，然后，志得意满地上楼去。

    “我已经替你打扫完了，你可以整天不动看看书好了。”

    她好笑又好气。

    “饭会自己热吗？”

    “哦，我不知道怎烧饭。”

    “如果没饭吃了，你就会知道。”

    “暖，也许是吧。”他应着声走了。

    她下了楼，发现屋子虽然摆整齐了，但还是很脏。她只有彻底打扫干净了才会去休息。她拿着畚箕去倒垃圾时，基克太太看见了她，就会立刻装做要去煤房。于是，在路过木栅栏时，她会喊：

    “你还忙着？”

    “嗳。”莫瑞尔无奈地说，“没法子。”

    “你看到霍斯了吗？”马路对面一个小个子女人叫道，原来是安东尼太太，一头黑发，个头奇矮，总是穿着一件紧身的棕色丝绒衣服。

    “没有。”莫瑞尔太太说。

    “嗳，我希望他来，我有一大堆衣眼，我刚才确实听到他的铃声。”

    “听！他在那头。”

    两个女人向远望去，河川区小巷那头有个男人站在一辆老式双轮轻便马车里，身子俯在一捆捆米黄色的袜子上。一群女人向他伸着手，一些人手里也拿着一捆捆东西。安东尼太太的胳膊上就搭着一堆没着色的袜子。

    “这星期我已经做了十打。”她骄傲地对莫瑞尔太太说道。

    “啧啧啧，”第一个说，“我不知道你怎么能有那么多时间。”

    “哦，”安东尼太太说，“只要你抓紧时间你就有时间。”

    “我不知道你是怎样抓紧时间的。”莫瑞尔太太说，“这么多袜你可以赚到多少钱？”

    “两个半便士一打。”另一个回答说。

    “哦，”莫瑞尔太太说，“我宁愿饿死也不愿为了挣两个半便士坐在那织二十四只长袜。”

    “哦，我不明白为什么，”安东尼太太说，“你可以抽空织啊。”

    霍斯摇着铃走过来了。女人们胳膊上搭着织成的长袜在院子门口等他。这个粗俗的家伙和她们开玩笑，设法哄骗她们，戏弄她们。莫瑞尔太太不屑一顾地走进了自己的院子。

    这里人有个约定俗成的习惯：如果一个女人想找她的邻居，就拿拨火棍伸进壁炉，敲敲壁炉后面的墙，隔壁房子里传来很响的声音，因为壁炉都是背靠背造的。一天早晨，基克太太正在做布丁，她差点被吓死，她听到她家壁炉上发出“砰”的一声，她冲到栅栏边，两手沾满了面粉。“是你敲的吗？莫瑞尔太太？”

    “劳驾了，基克太太。”

    基克太太爬上她家的煮衣锅，翻过墙从莫瑞尔太太家的煮衣锅上下去，冲进她的邻居家里。

    “哎，亲爱的，你觉得怎么样？”她关切地问道。

    “你去找一下鲍尔太太吧。”莫瑞尔太太说。

    基克太太走到院子里，扯着又尖又响的嗓子叫开了：

    “艾一吉一文一吉！”

    声音可以从河川区的这头到那头。艾吉终于跑来了，又被派去找鲍尔太太。基克太太顾不得她的布丁了，陪伴着她的邻居。

    莫瑞尔太太上了床，基克太太照顾安妮和威廉 去吃饭。胖胖的走路摇摇晃晃的鲍尔太太在屋子里发布着命令。

    “切点冷肉给主人做饭，再给他做一个苹果奶油布丁。”莫瑞尔太太说。

    “今天不吃布丁，他也过得去。”鲍尔太太说。

    莫瑞尔不是那种早早地就等在矿井吊架下面准备早点上去一类人。有些人四点钟放工哨声之前就等在那儿了。但莫瑞尔所在的那个矿坑煤层薄，离井口只有一里半，他通常干到工头停工才结束工作。然而，这天，他干得不耐烦了，两点的时候，就凑在绿色的蜡烛光下看表——他在一个安全巷道里——两点半时他又看了一次。为了不影响第二天干活，莫瑞尔正在挖一块岩石。他半蹲半跪着，使劲用镐“克嚓，克嚓”刨着。

    “快干完了吧？”他的伙伴巴克喊道。

    “干完？只要这世界存在就永远别想干完。”莫瑞尔吼着。“

    他继续挖着，累得精疲力竭。

    “这是一件让人窝火的工作。”巴克说。

    莫瑞尔累得火冒三丈，他没有应声，只是竭尽全力挖。

    “你最好留着明天干吧，沃尔特，用不着这么用力。”巴克说。

    “我明天一点都不想干这个活，伊斯瑞。”沃尔特喊道。

    “哦，好吧，你不干，会有别人干的。”伊斯瑞尔 说。

    莫瑞尔继续挖着。

    “哦，上面——收工了。”隔壁巷道里的人喊着，离开了。

    莫瑞尔继续挖着。

    “你也许会赶上我的。”巴克说着，走了。他离开之后，留下莫瑞尔一人，他几乎要发疯了。他还没完成他的工作。他劳累过度，几乎累得发狂。站起身，汗水淋漓，他扔下工具，穿上大衣，吹灭蜡烛，拿上灯走了。在主巷道里，别人的灯在摇摇晃晃。传来空洞的回音。这段地下通路又长又难走。

    他坐在井底，豆大汗珠往下滴着。有很多等着上井面的矿工，吵吵嚷嚷地说着活。莫瑞尔不情愿而简短地回应着招呼。

    “真讨厌，下雨了。”老吉尔斯听到上面传来的消息时说。

    莫瑞尔心里很踏实，他已把他喜爱的旧伞放在矿灯室里。终于，轮到他钻到升降机里，一会儿，他就到了地面。他交出矿灯、拿了那把他在一次大拍卖中花了一先令六便士买来的伞。他在井边站了一会儿，望着田野，灰蒙蒙的雨浙浙沥沥地下着，卡车上装满了湿漉漉、亮闪闪的煤。雨水顺着矿车边往下淌，打在车身上白色的“C、W公司”这几个字迹上。这些脸色苍白，神情忧郁的人川流不息地沿着铁轨冒雨来到田野上。莫瑞尔支起伞，听到雨点“啪、啪”地滴到伞上，心情开朗了许多。

    在通往贝斯伍德的路上，矿工们一个个都湿漉漉的，浑身又灰又脏。但他们那红红的嘴唇仍旧兴奋地谈论不休。莫瑞尔走在人群中、默默无言，怒气冲冲地皱着眉头。路过威尔斯王子酒店和艾伦酒店时，许多人溜了进去。莫瑞尔痛苦地抑制着这种诱惑，迈着沉重的步伐，从伸出公园院墙的那些温湿的树枝下走过，行进在青山巷泥泞的路上。

莫瑞尔太太躺在床上，听着雨声和从敏顿回来的矿工们的脚步声、说话声，还有他们从田野走上石阶后的“砰、砰”敲门声。

    “伙房门后有点香草汤，”她说：“先生如果不在路上喝酒，可能想喝上一杯。”

    但他姗姗来迟，她断定他去喝酒了，因为下着雨，他哪有心思照顾孩子和妻子？”

    每次她生小孩子时都要大病一场。

    “是什么？”她问，觉得快完蛋了。

    “一个男孩。”

    她从这句话中得到了安慰，一想到成了男孩子的妈妈，她心里洋溢着温馨。她看着这个孩子，孩子长着蓝眼睛，浓密的金黄色头发，漂亮的脸庞。她对这个孩子的爱油然而生，什么也顾不了了。她把孩子抱在她的床上。

    莫瑞尔一点也没预料妻子生产，拖着脚步走进园里的小路，疲倦而生气。他收起伞把它放在水槽里，然后，把那双笨重的靴子扔在厨房里。鲍尔太太出现在里面门口。

    “哎”，她说：“她的身体非常虚弱，生了个男孩。“

    矿工哼了一声，把他的空背包和铁皮水壶放在厨房的柜子上，又走到洗碗间，挂好外套然后回来跌坐进他的椅子里。

    “有酒吗？”他问。

    那女人走进伙房，软木塞“扑”地响了一声。她厌恶地把杯子重重放在莫瑞尔面前的桌子上，他喝了点滴，喘了口气，又用他的围巾一角擦擦大胡子，然后边喝边喘气，又躺靠在椅子上。那女人没有再跟他说话。她把他的晚饭放在他的面前，上楼了。

    “主人回来了吧？”莫瑞尔太太问。

    “我已经把晚饭给他了。”鲍尔太太回答。

    他双臂撑在桌上—— 他讨厌鲍尔太太没有给他铺桌布，只给他一小盘菜，而不是一大盘菜——他开始吃了。妻子的病，新添的男孩，现在都旁若无闻。他太累了，只想吃饭，然后把双臂放在桌子上坐着。 他不喜欢鲍尔太太在旁边。炉里的火太小，这些都让他闷闷不乐。

    吃完饭，他坐了20来分钟。然后，把火拨旺。 他穿着长袜，极不情愿地上了楼。这个时候去看他的妻子可真难堪，他太累了。他的脸是黑黝黝的，脸上满是汗渍，汗衫也干了，浸透了尘污，脖子上围着一条肮脏的羊毛围巾。他就这样站在床脚边。

    “嗨，现在感觉怎么样？”他问道。

    “很快就会好的。”她回答道。

    “呣。”

    他若有所失地站在那里，不知道该说什么，他很累，讨厌这些麻烦事，可他，又不会知道他该怎么办。

    “她们说是个男孩。”他结结巴巴地说。

她掀开被单，给他看这个孩子。

    “上帝保佑他！”他低声说。这模样令她捧腹大笑。因为他装出慈父的形象，勉勉强强地祝福他，实际上他并没有这种感情。

    “你走吧。”她说。

    “我就走，亲爱的。”他回答着，转身走了。

    妻子让他走，他想吻她一下，但又不敢。她希望他亲亲她，但无法让自己做出任何暗示。他出了屋子后，她松了一口气，屋子里留下一股淡淡的矿井味儿。

    有位公理会牧师每天都来看莫瑞尔太太。海顿先生很年轻，也很贫穷。他的妻子在生头胎孩子时死了，因此他现在还孤身独处。他是剑桥大学艺术学士，非常腼腆，生来不是做传教士的料。莫瑞尔太太很喜欢他，他也信赖她。当她身体精神好时，他们一聊好几个小时。他做了这个孩子的教父。

    AFTER such a scene as the last, Walter Morel was for some days abashedand ashamed, but he soon regained his old bullying indifference. Yet there was a slight shrinking, a diminishing in his assurance. Physically even, he shrank, and his fine full presence waned. He never grew in the least stout, so that, as he sank from his erect,assertive bearing, his physique seemed to contract along with his prideand moral strength.
　　But now he realised how hard it was for his wife to dragabout at her work, and, his sympathy quickened by penitence,hastened forward with his help. He came straight home from the pit,and stayed in at evening till Friday, and then he could not remainat home. But he was back again by ten o'clock, almost quite sober.
　　He always made his own breakfast. Being a man who rose earlyand had plenty of time he did not, as some miners do, drag his wifeout of bed at six o'clock. At five, sometimes earlier, he woke,got straight out of bed, and went downstairs. When she could not sleep,his wife lay waiting for this time, as for a period of peace.The only real rest seemed to be when he was out of the house.
　　He went downstairs in his shirt and then struggled into hispit-trousers, which were left on the hearth to warm all night. There was always a fire, because Mrs. Morel raked. And the firstsound in the house was the bang, bang of the poker against the raker,as Morel smashed the remainder of the coal to make the kettle,which was filled and left on the hob, finally boil. His cup and knifeand fork, all he wanted except just the food, was laid ready onthe table on a newspaper. Then he got his breakfast, made the tea,packed the bottom of the doors with rugs to shut out the draught,piled a big fire, and sat down to an hour of joy. He toastedhis bacon on a fork and caught the drops of fat on his bread;then he put the rasher on his thick slice of bread, and cut off chunkswith a clasp-knife, poured his tea into his saucer, and was happy. With his family about, meals were never so pleasant. He loatheda fork: it is a modern introduction which has still scarcely reachedcommon people. What Morel preferred was a clasp-knife. Then,in solitude, he ate and drank, often sitting, in cold weather,on a little stool with his back to the warm chimney-piece, his foodon the fender, his cup on the hearth. And then he read the lastnight's newspaper--what of it he could--spelling it over laboriously. He preferred to keep the blinds down and the candle lit even when itwas daylight; it was the habit of the mine.
　　At a quarter to six he rose, cut two thick slices of breadand butter, and put them in the white calico snap-bag. He filled histin bottle with tea. Cold tea without milk or sugar was the drinkhe preferred for the pit. Then he pulled off his shirt, and puton his pit-singlet, a vest of thick flannel cut low round the neck,and with short sleeves like a chemise.
　　Then he went upstairs to his wife with a cup of tea because shewas ill, and because it occurred to him.
　　"I've brought thee a cup o' tea, lass," he said.
　　"Well, you needn't, for you know I don't like it," she replied.
　　"Drink it up; it'll pop thee off to sleep again."
　　She accepted the tea. It pleased him to see her take itand sip it.
　　"I'll back my life there's no sugar in," she said.
　　"Yi--there's one big 'un," he replied, injured.
　　"It's a wonder," she said, sipping again.
　　She had a winsome face when her hair was loose. He loved herto grumble at him in this manner. He looked at her again, and went,without any sort of leave-taking. He never took more than two slicesof bread and butter to eat in the pit, so an apple or an orange wasa treat to him. He always liked it when she put one out for him. He tied a scarf round his neck, put on his great, heavy boots, his coat,with the big pocket, that carried his snap-bag and his bottle of tea,and went forth into the fresh morning air, closing, without locking,the door behind him. He loved the early morning, and the walk acrossthe fields. So he appeared at the pit-top, often with a stalkfrom the hedge between his teeth, which he chewed all day to keephis mouth moist, down the mine, feeling quite as happy as when hewas in the field.
　　Later, when the time for the baby grew nearer, he wouldbustle round in his slovenly fashion, poking out the ashes,rubbing the fireplace, sweeping the house before he went to work. Then, feeling very self-righteous, he went upstairs.
　　"Now I'm cleaned up for thee: tha's no 'casions ter stira peg all day, but sit and read thy books."
　　Which made her laugh, in spite of her indignation.
　　"And the dinner cooks itself?" she answered.
　　"Eh, I know nowt about th' dinner."
　　"You'd know if there weren't any."
　　"Ay, 'appen so," he answered, departing.
　　When she got downstairs, she would find the house tidy,but dirty. She could not rest until she had thoroughly cleaned;so she went down to the ash-pit with her dustpan. Mrs. Kirk,spying her, would contrive to have to go to her own coal-place atthat minute. Then, across the wooden fence, she would call:
　　"So you keep wagging on, then?"
　　"Ay," answered Mrs. Morel deprecatingly. "There's nothingelse for it."
　　"Have you seen Hose?" called a very small woman from acrossthe road. It was Mrs. Anthony, a black-haired, strange little body,who always wore a brown velvet dress, tight fitting.
　　"I haven't," said Mrs. Morel.
　　"Eh, I wish he'd come. I've got a copperful of clothes, an'I'm sure I heered his bell."
　　"Hark! He's at the end."
　　The two women looked down the alley. At the end of the Bottomsa man stood in a sort of old-fashioned trap, bending over bundlesof cream-coloured stuff; while a cluster of women held up theirarms to him, some with bundles. Mrs. Anthony herself had a heapof creamy, undyed stockings hanging over her arm.
　　"I've done ten dozen this week," she said proudly to Mrs. Morel.
　　"T-t-t!" went the other. "I don't know how you can find time."
　　"Eh!" said Mrs. Anthony. "You can find time if you make time."
　　"I don't know how you do it," said Mrs. Morel. "And how muchshall you get for those many?"
　　"Tuppence-ha'penny a dozen," replied the other.
　　"Well," said Mrs. Morel. "I'd starve before I'd sit downand seam twenty-four stockings for twopence ha'penny."
　　"Oh, I don't know," said Mrs. Anthony. "You can rip alongwith 'em."
　　Hose was coming along, ringing his bell. Women were waiting atthe yard-ends with their seamed stockings hanging over their arms. The man, a common fellow, made jokes with them, tried to swindle them,and bullied them. Mrs. Morel went up her yard disdainfully.
　　It was an understood thing that if one woman wantedher neighbour, she should put the poker in the fire and bang atthe back of the fireplace, which, as the fires were back to back,would make a great noise in the adjoining house. One morningMrs. Kirk, mixing a pudding, nearly started out of her skin as sheheard the thud, thud, in her grate. With her hands all floury,she rushed to the fence.
　　"Did you knock, Mrs. Morel?"
　　"If you wouldn't mind, Mrs. Kirk."
　　Mrs. Kirk climbed on to her copper, got over the wallon to Mrs. Morel's copper, and ran in to her neighbour.
　　"Eh, dear, how are you feeling?" she cried in concern.
　　"You might fetch Mrs. Bower," said Mrs. Morel.
　　Mrs. Kirk went into the yard, lifted up her strong, shrill voice,and called:
　　"Ag-gie--Ag-gie!"
　　The sound was heard from one end of the Bottoms to the other. At last Aggie came running up, and was sent for Mrs. Bower,whilst Mrs. Kirk left her pudding and stayed with her neighbour.
　　Mrs. Morel went to bed. Mrs. Kirk had Annie and Williamfor dinner. Mrs. Bower, fat and waddling, bossed the house.
　　"Hash some cold meat up for the master's dinner, and make himan 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 bottomof 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'clockhe looked at his watch, by the light of the green candle--hewas in a safe working--and again at half-past two. He was hewingat 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?" 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 to-morrow, 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, somebody else'll ha'e to," said Israel.
　　Then Morel continued to strike.
　　"Hey-up there--LOOSE-A'!" 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 hadnot finished his job. He had overworked himself into a frenzy. Rising, wet with sweat, he threw his tool down, pulled on his coat,blew out his candle, took his lamp, and went. Down the main roadthe lights of the other men went swinging. There was a hollowsound of many voices. It was a long, heavy tramp underground.
　　He sat at the bottom of the pit, where the great drops of waterfell 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 newsfrom 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,and was at the top in a moment. Then he handed in his lamp and gothis umbrella, which he had bought at an auction for one-and-six. Hestood on the edge of the pit-bank for a moment, looking out overthe fields; grey rain was falling. The trucks stood full of wet,bright coal. Water ran down the sides of the waggons, over thewhite "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 ofthe drops thereon.
　　All along the road to Bestwood the miners tramped, wet andgrey and dirty, but their red mouths talking with animation. Morel also walked with a gang, but he said nothing. He frownedpeevishly as he went. Many men passed into the Prince of Wales or intoEllen'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 feetof the colliers from Minton, their voices, and the bang, bang ofthe 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 themother 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 bedwith her.
　　Morel, thinking nothing, dragged his way up the garden path,wearily and angrily. He closed his umbrella, and stood it in thesink; then he sluthered his heavy boots into the kitchen. Mrs. Bower appeared in the inner doorway.
　　"Well," she said, "she's about as bad as she can be. It's a boy childt."
　　The miner grunted, put his empty snap-bag and his tin bottleon the dresser, went back into the scullery and hung up his coat,then came and dropped into his chair.
　　"Han yer got a drink?" he asked.
　　The woman went into the pantry. There was heard the popof a cork. She set the mug, with a little, disgusted rap, on thetable before Morel. He drank, gasped, wiped his big moustache onthe end of his scarf, drank, gasped, and lay back in his chair. The woman would not speak to him again. She set his dinner before him,and went upstairs.
　　"Was that the master?" asked Mrs. Morel.
　　"I've gave him his dinner," replied Mrs. Bower.
　　After he had sat with his arms on the table--he resentedthe fact that Mrs. Bower put no cloth on for him, and gave hima little plate, instead of a full-sized dinner-plate--he beganto eat. The fact that his wife was ill, that he had another boy,was nothing to him at that moment. He was too tired; he wantedhis dinner; he wanted to sit with his arms lying on the board;he did not like having Mrs. Bower about. The fire was too smallto please him.
　　After he had finished his meal, he sat for twenty minutes;then he stoked up a big fire. Then, in his stockinged feet,he went reluctantly upstairs. It was a struggle to face his wifeat this moment, and he was tired. His face was black, and smearedwith sweat. His singlet had dried again, soaking the dirt in. He had a dirty woollen scarf round his throat. So he stood at the footof the bed.
　　"Well, how are ter, then?" he asked.
　　"I s'll be all right," she answered.
　　"H'm!"
　　He stood at a loss what to say next. He was tired, and thisbother was rather a nuisance to him, and he didn't quite knowwhere he was.
　　"A lad, tha says," he stammered.
　　She turned down the sheet and showed the child.
　　"Bless him!" he murmured. Which made her laugh, because heblessed by rote--pretending paternal emotion, which he did not feeljust then.
　　"Go now," she said.
　　"I will, my lass," he answered, turning away.
　　Dismissed, he wanted to kiss her, but he dared not. She halfwanted him to kiss her, but could not bring herself to give any sign. She only breathed freely when he was gone out of the room again,leaving behind him a faint smell of pit-dirt.
　　Mrs. Morel had a visit every day from the Congregational clergyman. Mr. Heaton was young, and very poor. His wife had died at thebirth of his first baby, so he remained alone in the manse. He was a Bachelor of Arts of Cambridge, very shy, and no preacher. Mrs. Morel was fond of him, and he depended on her. For hourshe talked to her, when she was well. He became the god-parentof the child.