neatly covered with that material by Mrs. Barton's own neat fingers.
Wonderful fingers those! they were never empty; for if she went to spend
a few hours with a friendly parishioner, out came her thimble and a piece
of calico or muslin, which, before she left, had become a mysterious
little garment with all sorts of hemmed ins and outs. She was even trying
to persuade her husband to leave off tight pantaloons, because if he
would wear the ordinary gun-cases, she knew she could make them so well
that no one would suspect the sex of the tailor.

But by this time Mr. Barton has finished his pipe, the candle begins to
burn low, and Mrs. Barton goes to see if Nanny has succeeded in lulling
Walter to sleep. Nanny is that moment putting him in the little cot by
his mother's bedside; the head, with its thin wavelets of brown hair,
indents the little pillow; and a tiny, waxen, dimpled fist hides the rosy
lips, for baby is given to the infantile peccadillo of thumb-sucking. So
Nanny could now join in the short evening prayer, and all could go to
bed. Mrs. Barton carried up-stairs the remainder of her heap of
stockings, and laid them on a table close to her bedside, where also she
placed a warm shawl, removing her candle, before she put it out, to a tin
socket fixed at the head of her bed. Her body was very weary, but her
heart was not heavy, in spite of Mr. Woods the butcher, and the
transitory nature of shoe-leather; for her heart so overflowed with love,
she felt sure she was near a fountain of love that would care for husband
and babes better than she could foresee; so she was soon asleep. But
about half-past five o'clock in the morning, if there were any angels
watching round her bed--and angels might be glad of such an office they
saw Mrs. Barton rise up quietly, careful not to disturb the slumbering
Amos, who was snoring the snore of the just, light her candle, prop
herself upright with the pillows, throw the warm shawl round her
shoulders, and renew her attack on the heap of undarned stockings. She