‘Can’t ’ee now, my dear?’ returned Isaac, blinking very hard. ‘Well, I’m sure ’t is nat’ral.’
Rosalie gave a little sob, and the farmer, stretching out a large brown hand, patted her arm soothingly.
‘Don’t ’ee take on, though,’ he said. ‘Nay now, don’t ’ee take on, my dear. Cryin’ never did nobody no good.’
‘I’m so lonely,’ went on the girl brokenly. ‘I miss him at every turn.’
‘Ye’d be like to do that,’ responded Sharpe judicially. ‘Dear, yes—ye’d be like to do that.’
‘Everything is at sixes and sevens,’ she pursued plaintively. ‘The men think they can do just as they like; it was eight o’clock before they began their mowing this morning.’
‘Well, I never!’ ejaculated Isaac. ‘Eight o’clock! What be the world comin’ to?’
‘The very maids won’t get up,’ continued Rosalie. ‘This was churning morning, and it was after five before anybody moved. None of the men came near the place until six; the cows were left in the pasture, none of the beasts were fed!’
‘Shockin’! shockin’!’ commented the farmer. ‘Dear heart alive! I never heard o’ sich doin’s!’
‘When I speak to them,’ cried Rosalie, her voice rising with the recollection of her wrongs, ‘they turn round and tell me they are all too much upset to think of work.’