little home was in sight. The child was already as full to the brim with tricks as a little monkey, and so self-assured.
At the cottage the door stood open, and there was a rattling heard inside. Connie lingered, the child slipped her hand, and ran indoors.
"Gran! Gran!"
"Why, are yer back a'ready!"
The grandmother had been blackleading the stove, it was Saturday morning. She came to the door in her sacking apron, a blacklead-brush in her hand, and a black smudge on her nose. She was a little, rather dry woman.
"Why, whatever?" she said, hastily wiping her arm across her face as she saw Connie standing outside.
"Good morning!" said Connie. "She was crying, so I just brought her home."
The grandmother looked round swiftly at the child:
"Why, wheer was yer Dad?"
The little girl clung to her grandmother's skirts and simpered.
"He was there," said Connie, "but he'd shot a poaching cat, and the child was upset."
"Oh, you'd no right t'ave bothered, Lady Chatterley, I'm sure! I'm sure it was very good of you, but you shouldn't 'ave bothered. Why, did ever you see!"—and the old woman turned to the child: "Fancy Lady Chatterley takin' all that trouble over yer! Why, she shouldn't 'ave bothered!"
"It was no bother, just a walk," said Connie smiling.
"Why, I'm sure t'was very kind of you, I must say! So she was crying! I knew there'd be something afore they got far. She's frightened of 'im, that's wheer it is. Seems 'e's almost a stranger to er, fair a stranger, and I don't think they're two as'd hit it off very easy. He's got funny ways."
Connie didn't know what to say.
"Look, Gran!" simpered the child.
The old woman looked down at the sixpence in the little girl's hand.
"An' sixpence an' all! Oh, your Ladyship, you shouldn't, you shouldn't. Why, isn't Lady Chatterley good to yer! My word, you're a lucky girl this morning!"
She pronounced the name, as all the people did: Chat'ley.—
