Daffady grinned—a cautious grin.
"They'll deave yo, down i' th' town, wi their noise.—Yo'd think they were warked to deäth.—Bit, yo can see for yorsen. Why, a farmin mon mut be allus agate: in t' mornin, what wi' cawves to serve, an t' coos to feed, an t' horses to fodder, yo're fair run aff your legs. Bit down i' Whinthorpe—or Froswick ayder, fer it's noa odds—why, theer's nowt stirrin for a yoong mon. If cat's loose, that's aboot what!"
Laura's face lit up. Very few things now had power to please her but
Daffady's dialect, and Daffady's scorns.
"And so all the world is idle but you farm people?"
"A doan't say egsackly idle," said Daffady, with a good-humoured tolerance.
"But the factory-hands, Daffady?"
"O!—a little stannin an twiddlin!" said Daffady contemptuously—"I allus ses they pays em abuve a bit."
"But the miners?—come, Daffady!"
"I'm not stannin to it aw roond," said Daffady patiently—"I laid it down i' th' general."
"And all the people, who work with their heads, Daffady, like—like my papa?"