“An’ what ’ud ye say to a old ’ooman of seventy-five bein’ a tranter then?” returned she triumphantly. “My grammer have only just left off a-drivin’ o’ this ’ere cart, an’ now I do do it. E-es, we’ve done all the trantin’ in our place for nigh upon fifty year, I mid say.”
“There! well now,” commented Sol, as he recaptured the hoof, and resumed his labours.
“E-es, my granfer begun it, an’ then when he died my father kept it on, an’ when he died my grammer took it up, an’ now I do do it. Can’t ye shift that stone?”
“He be coming,” returned Sol. “’Tis queer work for a maid, an’ lwonesome too.”
“’Tis a bit lwonesome just about here,” she agreed. “I do generally have company part of the time, but nobody comes our ways much, an’ this ’ere bit o’ lane an’ the track over the down is lwonesome, once it do get so dark.”
“There he goes!” exclaimed Sol, as the stone, yielding to an especially vigorous tap, dropped into the road. “I’ll walk a bit alongside of ’ee in case the harse should go lame or anything.”
“Oh, no need to come so far out of your road,” returned she. “I’ll not trouble you.”
Sol, without heeding this protest, picked up the lantern, and restored it to its place, and then extended a hand to assist the girl to mount. She accepted his help, seated herself, and gathered up the reins once more.
“Good night, and thank ye,” said she.
“I’m comin’ part o’ the road wi’ ye,” said Sol, exactly as if he had made no such suggestion before.