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It was 1802, and Jabez was almost three years old. He was running, or rather scrambling, about the uneven court, gathering strength of limb and lung from their free use, albeit at the cost of dirt on frock and face, and the trouble of washing for Bess.

She was singing at her batting-frame—not an unusual thing now, for rumour had whispered in her ear that the Lancashire Volunteers were on their homeward march. Even as she sang, a stout young fellow in uniform stopped at the narrow entrance of the court, and questioned two or three gossiping women, who, with arms akimbo, blocked up the passage, if they knew the whereabouts of Simon Clegg, the tanner, and his daughter Bess.

“What! th’ wench as has the love-choilt?” answered one of the women.

“The girl I mean had no child when I saw her last,” responded he, between his set teeth.

“Happen that’s some toime sin’, mester, or it’s not th’ same lass. That’s her singin’ like a throstle o’er her work at the oppen winder.”

“And that’s her choilt,” said another, ending by a lusty call, “Jabez, lad, coom hither!”