She ended with a sigh, and sank for a moment into a depressed reverie, but in the course of a few moments she roused herself again.
"Tell me summat about thy feyther," she demanded.
Murdoch bent down and plucked a blade of grass with a rather uncertain grasp.
"There isn't much to tell," he answered. "He was unfortunate, and had a hard life—and died."
Janey looked at his lowered face with a sharp, unchildish twinkle in her eye.
"Would tha moind me axin thee summat?" she said.
"No."
But she hesitated a little before she put the question.
"Is it—wur it true—as he wur na aw theer—as he wur a bit—a bit soft i' th' yed?"
"No, that is not true."