“Do you call half-past ten early, dad?”
“I call it too early for thee to be traipsing through t’ wet grass with Henry Bradley.”
“Let us keep to facts, dear father. The grass was quite dry—too dry. Joel was wishing for rain; he said, ‘Master so pampered his cattle, that they perfectly thought scorn of half-cured grass.’”
“Thou art trying to slip by my question and I’m not going to let thee do it. What was John Henry Bradley doing wi’ thee in the low meadow this morning?”
“He brought me a letter from my brother Dick. Dick and Harry have been in London together, and they stayed four days with Aunt Josepha. They liked her very much. They took her to the opera and the play and she snubbed O’Connell and some other famous men and told them to let her alone, that she had two innocent lads in her care—and so on. You know.”
“Was he making love to thee?”
“You should not ask me a question of that kind, dad.”
“Thou need not tell me, what I should, or should not do. I hed learned all that, before thou wer born. And I’ll tell thee plainly that I will not hev any lovemaking between thee and Harry Bradley.”
“Very well, father. If you are going to the stable will you tell someone to have my saddle horse at the door in half-an-hour?”
“To be sure, I will. If tha wants a ride and will go to Yoden Bridge, I’ll go with thee.”