Mr. Briarley turned his attention to the fire again. Melancholy was upon the point of marking him for her own, when the most delicate of tact came to his rescue.
"It is na thy brass we want, Misses," he proclaimed. "It's—it's thy comp'ny." And then clenched the matter by adding still more feebly, "Ay, to be sure it's thy comp'ny, is na it, Sararann?"
"Ay," faltered Mrs. Briarley, "to be sure."
"It's nowt o' th' soart," answered Granny Dixon, in the tone of the last trump. "An' dunnot yo' threep me down as it is."
Mr. Briarley's countenance fell. Mrs. Briarley shed a few natural tears under cover of the baby; discretion and delicacy forbade either to retort. Their venerable guest having badgered them into submission glared at the fire with the air of one who detected its feeble cunning and defied it.
It was Mr. Briarley who first attempted to recover cheerfulness.
"Tha'st had quality to see thee, Sararann," he ventured. "Our Jane towd me."
"Ay," answered Mrs. Briarley, tearfully.
Mr. Briarley fell into indiscreet reverie.