Joan shook her head.
“Why, she said I were to tell yo' to go and see her some neet when yo' wur na tired,—just th' same as if yo' wur a lady. Shanna yo' go?”
“I dunnot know,” said Joan awakening, “I canna tell. What does she want o' me?”
“She wants to see thee an' talk to thee, that's what,”—answered Liz,—“just th' same as if tha was a lady, I tell thee. That's her way o' doin' things. She is na a bit loike the rest o' gentlefolk. Why, she'll sit theer on that three-legged stool wi' the choild on her knee an' laff an' talk to me an' it, as if she wur nowt but a common lass an' noan a lady at aw. She's ta'en a great fancy to thee, Joan. She's allus axin me about thee. If I wur thee I'd go. Happen she'd gi' thee some o' her owd cloas as she's ta'en to thee so.”
“I dunnot want no owd cloas,” said Joan brusquely, “an' she's noan so daft as to offer 'em to me.”
“Well, I nivver did!” exclaimed Liz. “Would na tha tak' 'em? Tha nivver means to say, tha would na tak' 'em, Joan? Eh! tha art a queer wench! Why, I'd be set up for th' rest o' my days, if she'd offer 'em to me.”
“Thy ways an' mine is na loike,” said Joan. “I want no gentlefolks' finery. An' I tell you she would na offer 'em to me.”
“I nivver con mak' thee out,” Liz said, in a fret. “Tha'rt as grand as if tha wur a lady thy-sen. Tha'lt tak' nowt fro' nobody.”
“Wheer's th' choild?” asked Joan.
“She's laid on th' bed,” said Liz. “She wur so heavy she tired me an' I gave her a rose-bud to play wi' an' left her. She has na cried sin'. Eh! but these is a noice color,” bending her pretty, large-eyed face over the flowers, and inhaling their perfume; “I wish I had a bit o' ribbon loike 'em.”