“Why?”
“She wants to buy things from you, and—er—I suppose she would like to see what sort of place we keep them in.”
No manner of explanation could have restored Mrs. Bolland’s normal senses so speedily as the slightest hint that uncleanliness could harbor its microbes in her house.
“My goodness, ma’am,” she cried, “wheä’s bin tellin’ you that my pleäce hez owt wrong wi’t?”
Now it was the stranger’s turn to appeal to Martin, and the boy showed his mettle by telling his mother, in exact detail, the request made by the lady and her reference to the fragile-looking child.
Mrs. Bolland’s wrath subsided, and her lips widened in a smile.
“Oah, if that’s all,” she said, “coom on, ma’am, an’ welcome. Ye canna be too careful about sike things, an’ yer little lass do look pukey, te be sure.”
The lady, gathering her skirts for the perilous passage of the yard, followed the farmer’s wife.
Martin and the girl sat and stared at each other. She it was who began the conversation.