"Ay," said Mr Poyser, "we've heared nothing about him, for it's the boys' hollodays now, so we can give you no account."
"But you'll niver think o' going there at this hour o' th' night?" said Mrs Poyser, folding up her knitting.
"O, Mester Massey sits up late," said Adam. "An' the night-school's not over yet. Some o' the men don't come till late—they've got so far to walk. And Bartle himself's never in bed till it's gone eleven."
"I wouldna have him to live wi' me, then," said Mrs Poyser, "a-dropping candle-grease about, as you're like to tumble down o' the floor the first thing i' the morning."
"Ay, eleven o'clock's late—it's late," said old Martin. "I ne'er sot up so i' my life, not to say as it wama a marr'in', or a christenin', or a wake, or th' harvest supper. Eleven o'clock's late."
"Why, I sit up till after twelve often," said Adam, laughing, "but it isn't t' eat and drink extry, it's to work extry. Good-night, Mrs Poyser; good-night, Hetty."
Hetty could only smile and not shake hands, for hers were dyed and damp with currant juice; but
