“An’ what do the younger ones say to it?” said Maimie, pausing in the act of setting a pile of plates on the tray which he held.
“Eh, they don’t say much. Mother can do what she likes wi’ they. They look a bit glum, but that’s all.”
“’Tisn’t much use lookin’ glum, I reckon,” sighed the girl. “Feyther’s that set on the notion he won’t hear naught agen it.”
“I dessay,” said Luke; “’tis a very good match for him?”
“Not a bit better nor ’tis for your mother,” cried Maimie, tossing her head.
“Why, our place is twice as big as this,” returned the youth; “and mother have money put by—a dale of brass she have. I don’t fancy your feyther could match it.”
They were slowly proceeding towards the buttery by this time, each holding on to an end of the tray; through the open doorway the children could be seen dancing round and round, while they vociferated shrilly the time-honoured refrain “Ring-a-ring-a-roses!”
“I don’t want him to match your mother’s brass, nor yet your mother,” said Maimie. “I wish she and the lot o’ you had kep’ away—that I do.”
“Well, if that’s all ye can find to say to me, I’d best take myself off,” cried Luke angrily, and he suddenly let go of his end of the tray.
There was a slide, a clatter, a crash; the piled up crockery, too heavy for Maimie’s arms alone, had slipped to the end of the tilted tray and fallen on the tiled buttery floor.