"It allus set me off—red did," cried Mrs. Dixon. "It wur my fav'rite color when I wur a lass,—an' I wur a good-lookin' lass, too, seventy year ago."
"I'm sure you was, ma'am," responded Mrs. Haworth. "I've no doubt on it."
"She canna hear thee," said Mrs. Briarley. "She's as deaf as a post—th' ill-tempert owd besom," and proceeded to give a free translation at the top of her lungs.
"She says tha mun ha' been han'some. She says ony-body could see that to look at thee."
"Aye," sharply. "She's reet, too. I wur, seventy year ago. Who is she?"
"She's Mester Haworth's mother."
"Mester Haworth's mother?" promptly. "Did na tha tell me he wur a rich mon?"
"Aye, I did."
"Well, then, what does she dress i' that road fur? She's noan quality. She does na look much better nor thee."
"Eh! bless us!" protested Mrs. Briarley. "What's a body to do wi' her?"