“Ah!” exclaimed Sir John as she paused. “So you knew Sir John Dering, the Sir John who was killed years ago in Flanders? Pray tell me of him.”
“An’ why should I?” quoth the old woman in sudden anger. “He’s been dead long years an’ forgot, I reckon. But when he lived the world was a better place ... ’specially High Dering! Aye, he was ... a man!”
“And what,” questioned Sir John wistfully, “what of the new Sir John Dering?”
Old Penelope spat contemptuously and trudged on a little faster.
“Take care o’ my old trug, young man,” she admonished; “the ’andle be main loose! Aye, me, if my troubles was no ’eavier than that theer trug I’d bear’em j’yful!”
“Are you so greatly troubled, then?” he asked gently.
“Ah, more’n my share, I reckon! And an old woman so solitary as I be must allus go full o’ sorrow!”
“Will you tell me some of your sorrows, old Penelope?”
“Why should I?”