“Your mother reckons ’tis all moonshine ’bout his coming to Cross Ways to learn farming. She says that he’m sent here to keep him out of mischief—for same reason as powder-mills was sent here. He’ll ride about, an’ hunt, an’ shoot, for sartain. But he won’t never take sensible to work—so your mother reckons.”
“Maybe he won’t; but faither be going to get two pound a week by him; so what he does ban’t no great odds, so long as he bides.”
“Would you call him a gen’leman?”
“Gentle is as gentle does. Us shall see.”
“Wi’ book-larnin’, no doubt?”
“Little enough, I fancy. Nought but a fool goes farmin’ in these days.”
“Yet ’tis our hope, I’m sure,” objected Jane. “Please God, Dick, us will be able to take a little farm down in the country some day—won’t us?”
“In the country—yes; but not ’pon this wilderness.”
There was silence between them again, while the owl hooted and the river scattered silver in the rushes and babbled against the granite bridge.
“Wonder what colour the chap’s eyes be, Dick?”