"If a hadna turned her I dew believe she'd ha' gien oos t' slip—she was terr'ble swollen as 'twos."
"I tell tha to let her be!" thundered Hubert. "If she deas, that's ma consarn; I'll ha' noa meddlin wi' my orders—dost tha hear?"
"Aye, it wor thirrty poond thraan awa lasst month, an it'll be thirrty poond this," said his mother slowly; "thoo art fine at shoutin. Bit thy fadther had need ha' addlet his brass—to gie thee summat to thraw oot o' winder."
Hubert rose from the table with an oath, stood for an instant looking down at Laura,—glowering, and pulling fiercely at his moustache,—then, noisily opening the front door, he strode across the yard to the byres.
There was an instant's silence. Then Mrs. Mason rose with her hands clasped before her, her eyes half closed.
"For what we ha' received, the Lord mak' us truly thankful," she said in a loud, nasal voice. "Amen."
* * * * *
After dinner, Laura put on an apron of Polly's, and helped her cousin to clear away. Mrs. Mason had gruffly bade her sit still, but when the girl persisted, she herself—flushed with dinner and combat—took her seat on the settle, opposite to old Daffady, and deliberately made holiday, watching Stephen's daughter all the time from the black eyes that roved and shone so strangely under the shaggy brows and the white hair.
The old cowman sat hunched over the fire, smoking his pipe for a time in beatific silence.
But presently Laura, as she went to and fro, caught snatches of conversation.