"Well, now ye can walk back wi' her," said Susan, addressing that gentleman before he had time to answer. "I don't want no tears a-mingled here. Who be that by the gate?"
"'Tis me, Betty Tuffin," returned the owner of that name. "I didn't come wi' these 'ere young folks—don't think it, my dear. I come to see if this 'ere noos be true an' to tell you how sorry I be."
"I'd 'low the noos bain't true, but come in all the same, Betty. I be al'ays glad to see you. You'd best be marchin', Jenny Pitcher, you and your new sweetheart, else it'll be dark afore you get home."
Jenny looked at her admirer, who nodded encouragingly and nudged her with his elbow.
"I think as we've a-come so far," she remarked, "I must ax leave to step in for a bit, Miss Vacher. 'Tis a little matter o' business, and business is a thing what ought to be attended to immediate."
Miss Vacher threw open the door with such violence that the handle banged against the wall, and stepped back with sarcastic politeness.
"Oh, come in, do. Come, and poke and pry, and see what ye can pick for yourself."
Sarcasm had turned to fury by the time the end of the sentence was reached, and, as Jenny, overcome by conflicting emotions, was about to sink into the nearest chair, she darted forward and snatched it away.
"That's mine anyhow," she cried emphatically. "You shan't touch that."
Jenny almost fell against the table, and gasped for a moment or two, partly from breathlessness, partly, as presently appeared, from grief.