“Why, Mrs Wharton o’ the Pit.”
“Mrs Wharton!” ejaculated Maimie. She checked the tears which were ready to fall, and sat looking at her father in amazement, the colour sweeping over her pretty face. “Why, she’ve got six childer of her own, and pretty nigh all of ’em lads.”
Her father nodded sideways with a contented air.
“They’ll come in handy about the place I dare-say,” he remarked.
“And she only buried Mr Wharton six month ago!”
“Ah! I reckon she’ll feel the want of him—very nigh as bad as I feel the want o’ your mother.”
“But she’d never think o’ gettin’ wed again—she’s fifty-five and more.”
Barnes removed his pipe, pointing with the stem at Maimie to enforce the comparison:—
“Your mother,” he said brokenly, “your mother, my dear, was fifty-four and a bit—’tis a nice age. The more I think on’t, the more I do seem to tak’ to the notion. Now, I’ll tell you what you’ll do, Maimie—jest pop round to-morrow and ax Mrs Wharton to come and eat her Sunday dinner wi’ us—her and all her fam’ly. Sunday is a good day for doin’ a bit o’ coortin’—her and me ’ull mak’ it up while you youngsters are making merry.”
“Nay, but, feyther—”