"She's been here again," shouted Granny Dixon one evening as Murdoch took a seat near her chair.
"Who?" he asked.
"Her. That lass o' Ffrench's—th' one I conna bide. She mak's out she's ta'en a fancy to our Janey. I dunnot believe her," at a louder pitch and with vigorous nods.
"Tha nasty tempert owd body!" cried Mrs. Briarley sotto voce. "Get out wi' thee!"
"What art tha sayin'?" demanded her guest. "Dunnot tell me tha wur sayin' nowt. I saw thee."
"I—I wur sayin' it wur a bad day fur th' wash," faltered the criminal, "an' fur them as had rheumatiz. How's—how's thine, Misses?"
"Tha'rt tellin' a lee," was the rejoinder. "Tha wert sayin' summat ill o' me. I caught thee at it."
Then going back to the subject and turning to Murdoch:
"I dunnot believe her! She cares nowt far nowt at th' top o' th' earth but hersen. She set here to-day gettin' em to mak' foo's o' theersens because it happen't to suit her. She's getten nowt better to do an' she wants to pass th' toime—if theer's nowt else at th' back on it. She's Will Ffrench ower again. She conna mak' a foo' o' me."
"He made foo' enow o' thee i' his day," commented Mrs. Briarley, cautiously.
Granny Dixon favored her with a sharper glance than before.
"Tha'rt sayin' summat ill again," she cried. "Howd thy tongue!"
"Eh!" whimpered the poor woman. "A body dare na say theer soul's theer own when hoo's about—hoo's that sharp an' ill-farrant."
