Hiram glanced at Martha, soon as the little old woman had hobbled out to lay fresh dishes in the hall; and Martha answered his glance in a way that showed there was an understanding between them—as indeed there was like to be, seeing that Hiram Hey had been wooing her off and on these two years past.
"Hast been to th' fields this morn?" asked Martha.
"Ay, iver sin' th' sun war up, lass."
"Tha'll be dry, then, Hiram, at after thy morning's work."
"Dry, now? Well, I wodn't say just dry—but that way on a bit. I niver war a drinker myseln, as I telled shepherd Jose nobbut yesterday; but there's a time for iverything, an' if I war to see a quart, say, of October frothing ower th' lip o' th' mug——"
"Tha'd find a mouth to fit it? Well, an' shall, says I," cried Martha.
Hiram stretched his limbs more lengthily before the peats, as a soothing gurgle from the pantry told him that Martha was already filling him a measure. She was back again by and by, with a brim-full pewter in her hands.
"Drink, lad Hiram; what wi' work an' sadness, there's need for strong liquor here at Marsh," she said.
The firelight struck with a ruddy, softened sheen on the pewter as Hiram lifted it. He drank slowly, and his face was full of unwonted cheerfulness until he had set down the empty mug beside him.
"Theer! It war gooid, Martha," he murmured sorrowfully, "but I doubt there's nowt mich in it when all's said. Drink is all varry weel, but there's one ower i' th' hall yonder who'll niver warm to liquor again this side o' Judgment. Nay, I'm fair shamed o' myseln to be supping ale while th' owd Maister ligs so cold."