“Because he’d have called me an idle hussy, and told me to go about my business,” said the girl pertly.
“No, he wouldn’t, my dear,” said the old man, tugging at the rope. “He’d have given you enough to buy a new silk dress, and a bonnet and feather—black ’uns, so that you might have come to the berrin’ looking as well as the best of ’em.”
“Would you, gran’fa?” cried the girl, with her eyes sparkling.
“Ay, that I would, my chuck, and the noo squire could have seen you, and—hist!”—boom!—“he’d have thought more of you than ever.”
“Oh, for shame, gran’fa,” said Dally. “You shouldn’t. But will you give me the money now?”
“It’s too late, my chucky.”
“No, no, it isn’t, gran’fa.”
“But you must mind what you’re doing, Dally.”
Another tug at the bell-rope, and a loud boom! made the place quiver.
“I don’t understand you, gran’pa.”