of a voice reading at its highest and shrillest pitch, and he had recognized it as Janey's.
As he entered, that young person rose panting from her seat, in her eagerness almost dropping the graphically illustrated paper she held in her hand.
"Eh!" she exclaimed. "I am glad to see thee! I could na ha' stood it mich longer. She would ha' me read the 'To-be-continyerd' one, an' I've bin at it nigh an hour."
Granny Dixon turned on her sharply.
"What art tha stoppin' fur?" she demanded. "What's th' matter wi' thee?"
Murdoch gave a slight start. The sound was so tremendous that it seemed almost impossible that it should proceed from the small and shriveled figure in the armchair.
"What art tha stoppin' fur?" she repeated. "Get on wi' thee."
Janey drew near and spoke in her ear.
"It's Mester Murdoch," she proclaimed; "him as I towd yo' on."
The little bent figure turned slowly and Murdoch felt himself transfixed by the gaze of a pair of large keen eyes. They had been handsome eyes half a century before, and the wrinkled and seamed face had had its comeliness too.
"Tha said he wur a workin' mon," she cried, after a pause. "What did tha tell me that theer fur?"
"He is a workin' mon," said Janey. "He's getten his work-cloas on now. Does na tha see 'em?"
"Cloas!" announced the Voice again. "Cloas i'deed! A mon is na made out o' cloas. I've seed workin' men afore i' my day, an' I know 'em."
