Mr. Briarley's countenance fell. Mrs. Briarley shed a few natural tears under cover of the baby; discretion and delicacy forbade either to retort. Their venerable guest having badgered them into submission glared at the fire with the air of one who detected its feeble cunning and defied it.
It was Mr. Briarley who first attempted to recover cheerfulness.
"Tha'st had quality to see thee, Sararann," he ventured. "Our Jane towd me."
"Ay," answered Mrs. Briarley, tearfully.
Mr. Briarley fell into indiscreet reverie.
"The chap as gets her," he said, "'ll get a han'some lass. I would na moind," modestly, "I would na moind bein' i' his shoes mysen."
Mrs. Briarley's smothered wrongs broke forth.
"Thee!" she cried out. "Tha brazant nowt! I wonder tha'rt na sham't o' thy face—talkin' i' that rood about a lady, an' afore thy own wife! I wonder tha art na sham't."
Mr. Briarley's courage forsook him. He sought refuge in submissive penitence almost lachrymose.
"I did na mean nowt, Sararann," he protested meekly. "It wur a slip o' th' tongue, lass. I'm—I'm not th' build as a young woman o' that soart ud be loike to tak' up wi'."
"Yo' wur good enow fur me onct," replied Mrs. Briarley, sharply. "A noice un yo' are settin' yore wedded wife below other people—as if she wur dirt."
"Ay, Sararann," the criminal faltered, "I wur good enow fur yo' but—but—yo——"
But at this point he dropped his head upon his hand, shaking it in mournful contrition.
