“In their own county, no doubt,” said the old woman, “but not in mine, at least, not among the cottagers.”
“But you have heard the name?”
“Aye, and that’s my secret.”
“You look rather fagged with your walk. You must come down to the house with me and have something to eat. You don’t look too strong.”
“But I am, my dear; I’m as strong as can be. I’ll be seventy my next birthday. Come November I’ll have done my three score years and ten, but dear heart, there ain’t no failing about me. I’m a bit withered—ripe, I tells the child.”
“Oh, you have a child. Is he your own?”
“Not he. He’s a little lad what lives with me. I call ’im my own child, for I’m fond of him. Yes, I’ll come to the house with you if you like. I’d be glad of a bite and a sup. Beer is what I takes. I can’t abear tea—it’s washy stuff.”
“You shall have a glass of beer and some cold meat. Come this way.”
“But you was going for a ride on that wicked-looking machine,” said the old woman.
“Oh, the ride can keep,” returned Barbara. “I’ll come with you and make you comfortable.”