“Ah,” exclaimed Farmer Barnes appreciatively, “he’s a fine lad, I’ll say that for him. He used to follow your poor master same as his shadow. I reckon ’twas your Joe what put him in the way of things so well. I reckon,” he continued sympathetically, “he’d ha’ been proud on him if he’d ha’ lived, poor owd lad.”
“I reckon he would,” agreed Mrs Wharton, puckering up her face and producing her handkerchief; from the turn the conversation was now taking she would have soon to cry again.
“Ah,” said Barnes, “your lad, I reckon he’s a comfort to you, Mrs Wharton.”
Mrs Wharton twitched down her handkerchief and spoke in a voice that was exceedingly clear and decided.
“Well, Mester Barnes, he is an’ he isn’t, if ye know what I mean. There can’t be two masters in one house, and that’s what I say—time and again I say it to our Luke. I’m fair tired sayin’ the same thing over and over again.”
The farmer nodded with a kind of groan.
“Jest so, Mrs Wharton, jest so. I can feel for ye there. ’Tis the very same way wi’ me an’ our Maimie. I do tell her a thing twenty times may-hap, an’ she’ll forget jest same, not but what she’s a good lass—I’d reckon you’d find her a good lass, Mrs Wharton, if you was to coom here.”
“Eh, Mr Barnes,” said the widow bashfully, “whatever put that in your head? Coom here, d’ye say?”
“This ’ere house,” said Jim firmly, “wants a missus summat awful, an’ I want a missus to see to things an’ keep the young folks in order, and there’s nobry in the parish I’d like better nor yourself, Mrs Wharton. You an’ me can feel for each other—ah, that we can—I don’t see nothin’ in the world to prevent us from lendin’ each other a helpin’ hand.”
Mrs Wharton paused to reflect, pleating the edge of her black-edged handkerchief.