'Why nawt, little girl? What should I call her? You used to love to hear it.'
'Not now, not now,' said the girl, in a choking voice, 'not to-day, not till Christmas is over. Call me Jane.'
'Yes, twenty year ago I come here, an' I've been settin' on them piles o' cender ever sence. 'Deed I most love them doors an' the rake an' poker. I've hed my frets about it sometimes, but I doan' want to go though.'
'And I say it's a shame in them to use you so!' cried the girl. 'Making their money hand over hand, and to go and grudge you this ash hole, for the sake of saving! They'll get no good from such reckoning. I wish their cruel old mill would burn down!'
'No, Jane, hold hersel'! Here's fire—should I do it?'
'It's Cowles's work. I hate him.'
'The mill's their own, Jane; they gev me what they liked; I've no claim. Mr. Cowles do as he think best for t'mill.'
'Then to do it just now! I hope his dinner'll be sweet.'
'I nawt meant my girl to knaw't till Christmas wor done. But ye'll nawt mind it, Jane, ye'll nawt! We'll nawt lose Christmas, too, for it come for us. Mr. Cowles doan' own thet. We'll hev thet anyhow, an' keep it. She'll nawt fret hersel', my little girl!'
Jane did not answer.