She carried in a tray of refreshment—bread, butter, cheese, milk, and honey, and had adjusted the sleeves of her gown, straightened her hair, put on a clean apron, and taken off her pattens. Mr. Daw detained her whilst he helped himself, asking divers questions; and Molly, nothing loth, ever ready for a gossip, remembered not her exacting brewhouse.
"There is a place called Trevlyn Hold in this neighbourhood, is there not?"
"Right over there, sir," replied Molly, extending her hand. "You might see its chimneys but for them trees."
"I suppose the young master of Trevlyn has grown into a fine man?"
Molly turned up her nose, never supposing but the question alluded to Cris, and Cris was no favourite of hers: a prejudice possibly imbibed during her service at Trevlyn Farm.
"I don't call him so," said she, shortly. "A weazened-face fellow, with an odd look in his eyes as good as a squint! He's not much liked about here, sir."
"Indeed! That's a pity. Is he married? I suppose not though, yet. He is young."
"There's many a one gets married younger than he is. But I don't know who'd have him," added Molly, in her prejudice. "I wouldn't, if I was a young lady."
"Who has acted as his guardian?" resumed Mr. Daw.
Molly scarcely understood the question. "A guardian, sir? That's somebody that takes care of a child's money, who has no parents, isn't it? He has no guardian that I ever heard of, except it's his father."