"Well, he left me pretty well provided for," returned the late Spencer's widow comfortably, "an' I won't say as 'e wur an out-an-out bad 'usband. But somehow I can't abide South-country folk."
"They say we Yorkshire tykes are a rough lot," said Herrick, smiling, and she took up the challenge at once.
"Oh, that's all my eye and Betty Martin," she returned in the vernacular of her youth, "I grant you there's a lot of soft-sawder about the fellers down here, but they ain't in it wi' us up in Yorkshire."
"Where do you come from, Mrs. Spencer? I'm a dalesman myself; Wensleydale's my native land."
"I'm from Thirsk, sir. My mother was washerwoman to lots of the gentry round, and my people still lives there, in a cottage on the Green."
"Ah, I know Thirsk—fine old church there, one of the finest in the North Riding. You've never been there, Mrs. Rose?" He turned to include Toni in the conversation, and found her wide-eyed and flushed with excitement.
"Mr. Herrick, my people lived near Thirsk—in a farm at Feliskirk in the hills. Oh, do you think she knew them?"
Mrs. Spencer, who had hitherto overlooked Toni, turned to her in surprise.
"If you'll tell me the name, miss—ma'am. We knew most of t' people in t' neighbourhood."
"Gibbs—their name was Gibbs." She spoke breathlessly. "The house was called the Green Farm. Oh, do you know anything about them?"