One sunshiny May day the outgoing porter took leave of his landlady—having been removed to a more important station—and after giving him a hearty Godspeed, she stood watching his departing figure, until she was presently hailed by the voice of the porter who had come to take his place. Looking round, she observed that his eyes were fixed on her with a gaze that was half-amused and half-enquiring. Jinny Whiteside was a pleasant enough sight that bright morning. She wore the bedgown and petticoat which many of her neighbours condemned as old-fashioned, but which she would have scorned to discard; her print sleeves were rolled up high on her sturdy arms, her fair hair shone like satin, and her sunburnt face was smooth and comely still in spite of her five-and-thirty years.
“Good day to yo’, missus,” said the new porter.
“Good day,” returned Jinny, removing her arms from the gate on which she had been leaning. “Yo’n coom about the lodging, I reckon?”
“How dun yo’ know that?” said he. “Theer’s other cotes i’ this place besides yo’rs.”
“Cotes enough,” agreed Jinny. “Yo’ can go an’ see ’em if yo’n a mind.”
“I reckon I’ll have a look round here first,” retorted he. “’Tis a pratty place, an’ I doubt by the looks on yo’ yo’re wan as ’ud mak’ a mon comfortable.”
Jinny, with an unmoved face, led the way into the cottage and piloted him upstairs, throwing open the door of the room just vacated by her last lodger. The newcomer stepped past her with a laugh; the highest part of the sloping ceiling touched his head.
“Not mich room to turn,” he observed.
“Yo’n no need to turn, wi’out it’s to turn in,” replied Jinny, surveying him calmly, with her hand resting on her hip; “or mayhap,” she continued reflectively, “yo’d fancy turnin’ out. I’m not one to beg and pray yo’ to lodge wi’ me again your will.”
“How mich are you axin’?” said the visitor, grinning appreciatively at this sally.