“I’s come back then,” said the father to the son; “leastwise, he’s bin browt back, flyed ower the Griff Low.”
The son looked at me. He had a devil-may-care bearing, his cap on one side, his hands stuck in the front pockets of his breeches. But he said nothing.
“Shall you come in a minute, Master,” said the elderly woman, to me.
“Ay, come in an’ ha’e a cup o’ tea or summat. You’ll do wi’ summat, carrin’ that bod. Come on, Maggie wench, let’s go in.”
So we went indoors, into the rather stuffy, overcrowded living-room, that was too cosy, and too warm. The son followed last, standing in the doorway. The father talked to me.
Maggie put out the tea-cups. The mother went into the dairy again.
“Tha’lt rouse thysen up a bit again, now, Maggie,” the father-in-law said—and then to me: “’ers not bin very bright sin’ Alfred came whoam, an’ the bod flyed awee. ’E come whoam a Wednesday night, Alfred did. But ay, you knowed, didna yer. Ay, ’e comed ’a Wednesday—an’ I reckon there wor a bit of a to-do between ’em, worn’t there, Maggie?”
He twinkled maliciously to his daughter-in-law, who was flushed, brilliant and handsome.
“Oh, be quiet, father. You’re wound up, by the sound of you,” she said to him, as if crossly. But she could never be cross with him.
“’Ers got ’er colour back this mornin’,” continued the father-in-law slowly. “It’s bin heavy weather wi’ ’er this last two days. Ay—’er’s bin northeast sin ’er seed you a Wednesday.”