"She don't think anything of money."
"They don't at that age, we got to do that for'm. Who is it then?"
"Why, Jim Rosevear, the yard-man."
Mrs. Byron knitted her brows in an endeavour to recall the young man's face. "Jim Rosevear? He come just before my accident. I can't think who 'ee is."
"Why, iss you do. You know, Jack Rosevear of Treketh's son."
"Jack Rosevear—th' old chap who's so contrary?"
"That's of'm. When he get in a temper, you know, 'ee take off 'is 'at, swing'n around, and fling'n down and stamp on it."
"Oh iss, I know, I remember." She meditated. "That 'edn't as bad after all."
"No, 'tedn't bad, though 'ee've quarrelled with's father. But Mrs. Andrews over to Gentle Jane is 'is auntie and, as she's nobody of 'er own and 'er man's dead, there's a farm there and Jim's nothing to do but go in and 'ang up 'is 'at."
"Then what's ah doin' at Wastralls?"