“Why dunno yo’ offer to tak’ him to Fairbanks?” Molly could not forbear asking, with some malice. “One more or less ’ll mak’ no differ to yo’, an’ th’ lad ’ud sooin be o’ use on th’ farm.”
“Not for a thousand golden guineas,” exclaimed Redfearn. “Our Mary’s th’ best o’ women; but if ’oo has a fault it’s jalousin’ about every bye-blow that’s born i’th’ village. There’s her an’ your Priscilla, schoolmaster, bin collogin’ o’er this job already, bi what aw can speer, an Mary looked sour enough to turn a field o’ red cabbage into pickles, when aw started fro’ Fairbanks to-neet. Didn’t ’oo, Aleck?” concluded Redfearn, with his usual appeal to his faithful henchman.
“Oo did that,” said Aleck, starting out of a deep reverie.
“Yo’ might lay it to me,” at last Aleck said, “awst nooan mind, an’ aw say Pinder ’d get used to it in a bit.”
“What could yo’ do wi’ a child i’ th’ hut, you numskull?” laughed the farmer.
“Well, settle it yo’r own gate—it’s all a price to me. Best chuck it i’ th’ cut an’ ha’ done wi’ it.”
If a look could have blasted man, as lightning blasts the oak, never more would Aleck have herded flock on the lofty heights and stretching moors that edge Diggle valley and its rippling brook.
“Out on yo’, Aleck no-name,” cried Molly, springing hotly to her feet. “Eh! But if aw could nobbut see mi way, yo’ bonnie bairn, none sud ha’ yo’ but mysen. These hands received yo’, an’ these hands sud tew for yo’, if aw worked ’em to skin an’ bone. But it canna be, my bonnie pet,”—she apostrophised the unconscious babe—“An’ Moll o’ Stute’s nooan fit to ha’ th’ rearin’ o’ such as thee, quality-born if ivver ther’ wor one.”
“That reminds me,” interposed the schoolmaster, as he drew forth the locket and told its tale.
“Well, aw nivver did,” gasped Mrs. Schofield, eyeing the keepsake and with some difficulty prizing it open with the point of her scissors. “Black hair an’ leet, crossed an’ knotted. Th’ leet coloured ’ll be th’ poor lass’s, silk isn’t in it for fine, an’ th’ black ’ll be th’ father’s, aw’ll be bun’.”