"Did tha go ta Laysgill last Sunday?" said Mrs. Mason abruptly.
Daffady removed his pipe.
"Aye, a went, an a preeched. It wor a varra stirrin meetin. Sum o' yor paid preests sud ha' bin theer. A gien it 'em strang. A tried ta hit 'em all—baith gert an lile."
There was a pause, then he added placidly:
"A likely suden't suit them varra weel. Theer was a mon beside me, as pooed me down afoor a'd hofe doon."
"Tha sudna taak o' 'paid preests,' Daffady," said Mrs. Mason severely.
"Tha doosna understand nowt o' thattens."
Daffady glanced slyly at his mistress—at the "Church-pride" implied in the attitude of her capacious form, in the shining of the Sunday alpaca and black silk apron.
"Mebbe not," he said mildly, "mebbe not." And he resumed his pipe.
On another occasion, as Laura went flitting across the kitchen, drawing to herself the looks of both its inmates, she heard what seemed to be a fragment of talk about a funeral.
"Aye, poor Jenny!" said Mrs. Mason. "They didna mak' mich account on her whan t' breath wor yanst oot on her."