louder, a dull red began to show itself on her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled. She had been "a han'some lass, seventy year' ago, an' had had her day—as theer wur dead folk could tell."
"She'll go on i' that rood aw neet, if summat dunnot tak' her off it," said Janey. "She loikes to talk about that theer better than owt else."
But something did happen "to tak' her off it."
"Tha'st getten some reason i' thee," she announced. "Tha does na oppen tha mouth as if tha wanted to swally folk when tha says what tha'st getten to say. Theer's no workin' men's ways about thee cloas—or no cloas."
"That's th' way she goes on," said Janey. "She canna bide folk to look soft when they're shoutin' to her. That was one o' th' things she had agen Mester Hixon. She said he getten so red i' th' face it put her out o' patience."
"I loike a mon as is na a foo'," proclaimed Granny Dixon. But there her voice changed and grew sharp and tremulous. "Wheer's that flower?" she cried. "Who's getten it?"
Janey turned toward the door and uttered a shrill little cry of excitement.
"It's Miss Ffrench," she said. "She's—she's stondin' at th' door."
It would have been impossible to judge from her expression how long she had been there. She stood upon the threshold with a faint smile on her lips, and spoke to Janey.
"I want to see your mother," she said.
"I'll—I'll go and tell her," the child faltered. "Will yo' coom in?"
She hesitated a second and then came in. Murdoch
