“Oh, but you do,” said the old man, looking at her critically; “and fine and smart too for coming to a funeral.”
“Why, you wouldn’t have had me wear black, gran’fa, would you?”
They were quite alone in the belfry, and as the old man talked, he from time to time gave a steady pull at the rope, and a heavy, jarring boom was the result.
“Ah, and I might have said wear black, if I’d ha’ thought of it,” said the old man, examining the girl from top to toe.
“Then I hadn’t got any black, and if I had I would not have worn it, because it makes one look so ugly,” said the girl, giving her head another toss. “Now do tell me where to go. I want to see well. Can’t you put me up in that loft place over the vestry?”
“What! where you could see down into squire’s pew?” said the old man, giving another tug at the rope.
“Yes, gran’fa; it’s a nice snug place, where no one could see me.”
“Oh, yes, they could,” said the old man, chuckling. “Anybody looked up from the squire’s pew he could see your bonny face.”
“I’m sure I didn’t know,” said the girl; “and you’re very fond of calling it a bonny face all at once. You said one day I was an ugly little witch.”
“Did I?” said the old man, whose voice was nearly drowned by the boom he produced from the bell. “I s’pose I was cross that day. But, Dally, why didn’t you come and ask your old grandfather for some money to buy black?”