“Come, Granfer,” said the girl, “it be toime ye took your egg-an’-milk!”
“Cruel and flinty-hearted?” murmured Sir John reproachfully. “O Mr. Dumbrell!”
“Hesh-hesh!” whispered the ancient fiercely.
“Are ye catchin’ cold, Granfer deary?”
“Brimstone witch? O Mr. Dumbrell!”
“Who be the man ahint ye, Nan?” demanded the old man, pointing with his stick.
“Only the gentleman as took my part’s marnin’ agin Mr. Sturton, Granfer.”
“Sturton!” snarled the ancient, flourishing stick in tremulous hand. “Sturton—dang ’im! Ef I ketch ’im tryin’ t’ kiss ’ee, lass, I’ll break ’is ’ead for ’im so old as I be—aye, I will, an’ ’e can turn us out o’ th’ ow’d cottage arter if ’e loikes—dang ’im! Doan’t ’ee forget pore Mary Beal as drownded ’erself las’ year arl along o’ Sturton——”
“There, there, Granfer, you be gettin’ arl of a shake! That’ll du now, that’ll du or—no puddin’ fur your supper, mind that.”
“Arl right, lass, arl right! Only when I du think o’ that Sturton——”