wi' black letters on it. I loike a white un th' best, an' ha' th' letters cut deep, an' th' name big, an' a bit o' poitry at th' eend:
'Stranger, a moment linger near. |
Summat loike that. But yo' see it ud be loike to cost so much. What wi' th' stone an' paint an' cuttin', I should na wonder if it would na coom to th' matter o' two pound—an' then theer's th' funeral."
She ended with a sigh, and sank for a moment into a depressed reverie, but in the course of a few moments she roused herself again.
"Tell me summat about thy feyther," she demanded.
Murdoch bent down and plucked a blade of grass with a rather uncertain grasp.
"There isn't much to tell," he answered. "He was unfortunate, and had a hard life—and died."
Janey looked at his lowered face with a sharp, unchildish twinkle in her eye.
"Would tha moind me axin thee summat?" she said.
"No."
But she hesitated a little before she put the question.
"Is it—wur it true as he wur na aw theer—as he wur a bit—a bit soft i' th' yed?"
"No, that is not true."
"I'm glad it is na," she responded. "Art tha loike him?"
"I don't know."
