“Why, mother, I've not missed a day's work since Christmas; so there ain't much to find fault with.”
“Nay, Harry, 'tisn't thy work. Thou wert always good at thy work, praise God. Thou'rt thy father's own son for that. But thou dostn't keep about like, and take thy place wi' the lave on 'em since Christmas. Thou look'st hagged at times, and folk'll see't, and talk about thee afore long.”
“Let 'em talk. I mind their talk no more than last year's wind,” said Harry, abruptly.
“But thy old mother does,” she said, looking at him with eyes full of pride and love; and so Harry, who was a right good son, began to inquire what it was that was specially weighing on his mother's mind, determined to do anything in reason to re-place her on the little harmless social pinnacle from which she was wont to look down on all the other mothers and sons of the parish. He soon found out that her present grievance arose from his having neglected his place as ringer of the heavy bell in the village peal on the two preceding Sundays; and, as this post was, in some sort the corresponding one to stroke of the boat at Oxford, her anxiety was reasonable enough. So Harry promised to go to ringing in good time that morning, and then set about little odds and ends of jobs till it would be time to start. Dame Winburn went to her cooking and other household duties, which were pretty well got under when her son took his hat and started for the belfry. She stood at the door with a half-peeled potato in one hand, shading her eyes with the other, as she watched him striding along the raised footpath under the elms, when the sound of light footsteps and pleasant voices, coming up from the other direction, made her turn round and drop a curtsey as the rector's daughter and another young lady stopped at her door.
“Good morning, Betty,” said the former; “here's a bright Sunday morning at last, isn't it?”
“'Tis indeed, miss; but where hev'ee been to?”
“Oh, we've only been for a little walk before school-time. This is my cousin, Betty. She hasn't been at Englebourn since she was quite a child; so I've been taking her to the Hawk's Lynch to see our view.”
“And you can't think how I have enjoyed it,” said her cousin; “it is so still and beautiful.”
“I've heer'd say as there ain't no such a place for thretty mile round,” said Betty, proudly, “But do'ee come in, tho', and sit'ee down a bit,” she added, bustling inside her door, and beginning to rub down a chair with her apron; “'tis a smart step for gentlefolk to walk afore church.” Betty's notions of the walking powers of gentlefolk were very limited.
“No, thank you, we must be getting on,” said Miss Winter; “but how lovely your flowers are! Look, Mary, did you ever see such double pansies? We've nothing like them at the Rectory.”