“An’ there’s Rose Blanchard,” continued Mrs Wharton, ruminating, “she’s a nice lass; wonderful house-proud Rose is.”
“Ah!” agreed Barnes, nodding.
Mrs Wharton was struck by something peculiar in his tone, and looked at him sharply; a deeper shade of colour was slowly overspreading his face, and he was smiling in an oddly bashful way.
“Can ye call to mind no other lass?” he said, after a pause, and, edging his chair round the table, he nudged the widow meaningly.
A light suddenly dawned on Mrs Wharton; she began to laugh with a rather conscious look.
“Well, theer’s one lass as ’ud suit very well. In more ways nor one she’d suit, I reckon; but I’m sure I don’t know whatever you’d say to it, Mester Barnes.”
“Give her a name,” said Jim, grinning more broadly.
“Well—I hardly like—’t ’ud coom best fro’ you, Mester Barnes; but she’s a very nice lass, an’ I’ve heard as her mother left a nice bit o’ money behind her.”
“Meanin’ my missus,” shouted Jim, the smiles forsaking his face immediately.
“Oh, I named no names, Mester Barnes, though I did hear that poor Martha had a nice bit put away in the bank.”