“What's come ower thee?” said Mrs. Garth, opening her eyes and yawning.
“What's come over you more like?” growled Joe.
“What now?”
“Do you sell your own flesh and blood?” said Joe. “Sell? What's thy mare's nest now, thou weathercock? One wouldn't think that butter wad melt in thy mouth sometimes, and then agen—”
“I'm none so daft as daftly dealt with, mother,” interrupted the blacksmith.
“I've telt thee afore thou'rt yan of the wise asses. What do you mean by sell?”
“I reckon you know when strangers in the street can tell me.”
The blacksmith coiled himself up in his gloomy reserve and stared into the fire.
“Oh, thou's heard 'at yon man's in Doomsdale, eh?”
Joe grunted something that was inarticulate.