“Maybe she had, an’ maybe she hadn’t,” said Jim. “As how ’tis, whatever was left was left to me, an’ it’s me as’ll have the settlin’ on’t.”
“Of course, of course—I’m only sayin’—blood’s thicker nor water, when all’s said an’ done, isn’t it?”
“’Tis indeed, an’ I’m sure that’s a sayin’ as you’ll bear in mind, my dear, when you’re setting your Luke up. He’s his feyther’s son, ye know, an’ what did his feyther lay by so mich brass for, if not for the lad as is to stand in his shoes?”
There was a twinkle in honest Jim’s eyes as he made this home-thrust, and when Mrs Wharton replied, it was with a sort of giggle.
“Ah, to be sure, he’s to stand in’s feyther’s shoes, poor lad, but I doubt he’ll find ’em a tight fit if I take your advice, Mester Barnes, an’ make him pay me a big lump o’ rent.”
The farmer laughed outright.
“Ye had me there, Lizzie,” he said. “I hadn’t give a thought to the chance o’ my lass settin’ up along o’ your lad when I gave you that there advice, my dear. ’Tis as broad as ’tis long, that’s one thing—’twill be but takin’ the brass out o’ one pocket and puttin’ it into another. Blood’s thicker nor water, as ye said just now. I doubt we’ll agree very well.”
“I doubt we shall,” said Mrs Wharton.
“Well, the first thing agreed on is that you an’ me is to be shouted soon,” pursued Jim, smiling, “and next thing is to tackle the yoong folks.”
“Reet,” said Mrs Wharton. “If you’ll have a quiet talk wi’ your lass at arter we’re gone, I’ll say a word to our Luke while we’re goin’ home.”