“Ye don’t look for birds in a town, do ye?” retorted Phoebe, sharply.
“Of course not,” agreed her mother. “I’m not used to towns.”
Towards evening she became restless again, and Mrs Caines despatched her family to bed earlier than usual in order that she might keep guard herself; her lord and master found it more convenient to keep out of the way.
“Father’s chair” was duly set forth, and Mrs Sweetapple sat and watched it, making an occasional remark; whenever these disjointed phrases were of a dangerous tendency Phoebe took care to recall her mother to the sense of her actual situation.
No catastrophe occurred that evening therefore, and as the days passed Mrs Sweetapple seemed gradually to accustom herself to her surroundings; towards the end of the week, indeed, she became as silent during the evening hours as since her arrival at Branston she had proved herself throughout the day.
When Sunday came, however, all was different. She went to church in the morning, and behaved as well as even her daughter could wish; she seemed pleased and interested, and as much excited as a child. She had not been to church for many years, and all was new to her.
The unwonted exertion tired her, and she was even more quiet than usual all that afternoon, dozing in her chair for the most part. Towards evening, however, she woke up with a start.
“What’s gone wi’ the settle?” she cried. “Wherever be the settle? Bartlett ’ull be here in a minute an’ he’ll not ha’ nowheres to sit.”
The children began to giggle, and even John could not repress a smile. Before the perplexed Phoebe had time to formulate any soothing rejoinder, Lizzie started from her chair.
“I’m fair dathered among ye,” she cried out. “Where be the settle, I say? The settle what my father did make wi’ his own hands and what poor Bartlett did always sit on. I’ll not be robbed on’t.”