“Let’s hey a look at th’ little chap. Aw’ve not seen the colour o’ his eyen yet.”
The eyes were grey, so dark they might have passed for black; and there was in them more than the ordinary inquiring gaze of babyhood.
“Well, thah’rt a pratty lad; but had thah bin th’ fowest[6] i’ o’ Lankisheer, aw’d a-thowt thi mammy’d ha’ speered[7] fur thi afore this,” added he, sitting down, and nodding to the child, which crowed in his face.
“Ah! one would ha’ reckoned so,” assented Bess, without turning round.
“What ar’ ta gooin’ to do, Simon, toward fandin’ th’ choilt’s kin?” next questioned their visitor.
Simon looked puzzled
“Whoy, aw’ve hardly gi’en it a thowt.”
But the question, once started, was discussed at some length. Meanwhile the porridge destined for two Bess poured into three bowls, placing three iron spoons beside them, with no more ceremony than, “Ye’ll tak’ a sup wi’ us, Mat.”
Mat apologised, feeling quite assured there was no more than the two could have eaten; but Simon looked hurt, and the porridge was appetising to a hungry man; so he handed the baby to the young woman, took up his spoon, and the broken thread of conversation was renewed at intervals. What they said matters not so much as what they did.
The next morning being Sunday, Cooper called for Clegg just as the bells were ringing for church; and the two, arrayed in their best fustian breeches, long-tailed, deep-cuffed coats, knitted hose, three-cornered hats, and shoes, only kept for Sunday wear, set out to seek the parents of the unclaimed infant, nothing doubting that they were going to carry solace to sorrowing hearts.