“Here’s another cottage,” I said: “I’ll ask the way, this time.”
There was no need to go in, this time, as the woman was standing in the doorway, with a baby in her arms, talking to a respectably dressed man—a farmer, as I guessed—who seemed to be on his way to the town.
“—and when there’s drink to be had,” he was saying, “he’s just the worst o’ the lot, is your Willie. So they tell me. He gets fairly mad wi’ it!”
“I’d have given ’em the lie to their faces, a twelvemonth back!” the woman said in a broken voice. “But a’ canna noo! A’ canna noo!” She checked herself, on catching sight of us, and hastily retreated into the house, shutting the door after her.
“Perhaps you can tell me where Hunter’s farm is?” I said to the man, as he turned away from the house.
“I can that, Sir!” he replied with a smile. “I’m John Hunter hissel, at your sarvice. It’s nobbut half a mile further—the only house in sight, when you get round bend o’ the road yonder. You’ll find my good woman within, if so be you’ve business wi’ her. Or mebbe I’ll do as well?”
“Thanks,” I said. “I want to order some milk. Perhaps I had better arrange it with your wife?”
“Aye,” said the man. “She minds all that. Good day t’ye, Master—and to your bonnie childer, as well!” And he trudged on.
“He should have said ‘child,’ not ‘childer’,” said Bruno. “Sylvie’s not a childer!”
“He meant both of us,” said Sylvie.