“Such as half a dozen fresh eggs, I suppose?” suggested Mrs. Cross. “She wouldn’t ever give ’ee a fowl now, would she? Would she?” she persisted, as Mrs. Chaffey did not answer. “I shouldn’t think she’d ever give ’ee a fowl. Lard, no, not a fowl—would she?”
Mrs. Chaffey was at length goaded into an answer.
“If she did it wouldn’t be so very much. I wouldn’t think meself at all beholden to her—no, that I wouldn’t. Seein’ that she’s got dozens of ’em a-runnin’ about her place, I don’t think I need be so very thankful if she do spare a couple every now an’ then, an’ a ham at Christmas, wi’ all the pigs they’ve got.”
“A ham!” ejaculated Mrs. Cross. “A ham! Why, they must be doin’ pretty well!”
“Well—not so bad,” conceded Mrs. Chaffey, very unwillingly. “Connor, he did take a kind o’ little farm a few year ago, a kind o’ dairy farm. They’ve a-got pigs an’ chickens an’ sich-like—a deal of ’em. I hope there mayn’t be too many,” she added darkly. “I hope they mayn’t be a-livin’ too free an’ a-spendin’ too fast. I hope not. I hope there mayn’t be a day o’ reckonin’ comin’.”
She shook her head in an ominous manner, and Mrs. Cross hastened to follow her example.
“They bain’t a-layin’ anything by, ye may be sure,” she exclaimed conclusively.
A kind of spasm crossed the other lady’s face, and she rose hastily, remarking that if she didn’t begin to straighten up a bit she wouldn’t get the house put to rights before bedtime.
Mrs. Cross took the hint, rose likewise, and backed meditatively towards the door.
“Well, ’tis a strange tale what you’ve a-told I, Mrs. Chaffey, an’ I do feel for ye terr’ble. As for that there voolish——”