“Mine be better, I tell ’e! Her spins black wool an’ white together into butivul, braave grey yarn; an’ auld Churdles Ash—him what’s got the loom to Widecombe, do buy it for money, wi’ gladness.”
“Ban’t much black wool in these paarts; an’ my mother knits her worsted into clothes for me. But I’ll share what I find with you now.”
“I lay I’ll find a plenty for myself.”
“I lay you will. An’ I’ll shaw ’e wheer the blackberries be in autumn time, an’ wheer the best hurts be got out Laughter Tor way; an’ wheer the properest rexens for cannel-making[10] do graw.”
“Sure you’m a very kind-fashioned bwoy, Jan Aggett.”
“You’d best to call me just ‘Jan,’ like other folks.”
“So I will; an’ you’d best to call me ‘Sally.’”
“Burned if I doan’t then! An’ us’ll be friends.”
From that time forward the lonely children became close companions; and when years passed and Sarah ripened to maidenhood, while John brought forth a straw-coloured moustache and thick beard that matched his sandy locks, the pair of them were already regarded by their own generation as surely bound for marriage in due season.
There came an afternoon when the girl had reached the age of eighteen and John was just arrived at man’s estate. They worked together during harvest time, and the thatcher, standing on a stack ladder, watched the girl where she was gleaning and likened her pink sunbonnet to some bright flower nodding over the gold stubbles. Presently she came to him with a bundle of good corn under her arm.