“The new owner of Grimland?” queried Mr. Winthrop.
“Yes, sir. Well, he said as ’ow Sir John wanted both his nephews to go to the mine and learn the practical working of it—and Mr. Dickson was to find them rooms near by.”
“Well?”
“Well, Mr. Dickson knows as ’ow my ’ome is clean—” and Mrs. Slater looked around her little cottage with an air of pride.
“And ’e asks Bill if I would take them.”
“And so you are going to?”
The woman looked round her fearfully. “I’ve a spare bedroom, sir, which I’ve cleaned up, and they can have my parlour. But fancy, sir, two strangers in Marshfielden!”
“It will liven things up,” remarked the vicar “we’ve never had strangers to live here since I came—now over forty years ago.”
“No, sir, nor before that,” went on the woman in a low tone. “My grandmother used to speak of two ladies who came to Marshfielden when she was a little girl. Artists they were, and strangers. The clergyman’s wife put them up—and—and—”
“Yes?” urged Mr. Winthrop gently.