“What notion, sir?” returned the poor woman, startled.
“Why, this here notion o’ your daughter a-gaddin’ about lookin’ arter the rates.”
“Well, you see, we be so hard pressed, we be,” faltered she. “My daughter do try to do her best to earn a little, all ways she can. I’m sorry as you’ve a-got objections, Mr. Fowler.”
“It doesn’t in the least matter if he’s got objections or not,” put in Bethia tartly. “It’s no concern of Mr. Fowler’s. So long as he pays up regularly he need not trouble himself.”
Jacob got out of the armchair and once more approached the table.
“Look ’ee here,” he said threateningly; “this here’s past a joke. I do forbid ye for to do it—do ye hear?”
Bethia looked at him steadily. “I hear, and I can only repeat what I said before. Now, Mr. Fowler, will you please go away? I’m going to dish up.”
“Bethia, my dear!” protested Mrs. Masters feebly. “There, she’ve a-got sich a spirit, Mr. Fowler, you must excuse her. She be a bit vexed, you see, wi’ you findin’ fault wi’ her. I’m sure, the longer you stay, Mr. Fowler, the better we’m pleased. We’ve nothin’ much fit to offer ye, but if ye’d like to sit down and take a bit wi’ us you’re truly welcome.”
Bethia shot an indignant glance towards her parent, and Jacob stood hesitating for a moment; then with a laugh he drew up his chair to the table.
“I’ll not refuse a good offer,” he said.