On those occasions only the barefooted boys who jeered at the panting weaver could put new strength into his shrivelled arms.

They did it by telling him that he and Mysy would have to go to the "poorshouse" after all, at which the grey old man would wince, as if "joukin" from a blow, and, shuddering, rise and, with a desperate effort, gain the top of the incline.

Small blame perhaps attached to Cree if, as he neared his grave, he grew a little dottle.

His loads of yarn frequently took him past the workhouse, and his eyelids quivered as he drew near.

Boys used to gather round the gate in anticipation of his coming, and make a feint of driving him inside.