As she came out, she found her brother whistling the blithe air of "Green Sleeves," cutting strange capers, in imitation of the morris-dancers, and whirling his cudgel over his head instead of a kerchief. The gaiety of the day seemed infectious, and to have seized even him. People stared to see Black Jem, or Surly Jem, as he was indifferently called, so joyous, and wondered what it could mean. He then fell to singing a snatch of a local ballad at that time in vogue in the neighbourhood:—
"If thou wi' nah my secret tell,
Ne bruit abroad i' Whalley parish,
And swear to keep my counsel well,
Ey win declare my day of marriage."
"Cum along, lass," he cried stopping suddenly in his song, and snatching his sister's hand. "What han ye getten there, lapped up i' your kirtle, eh?"
"A white dove," replied Jennet, determined not to tell him any thing about her strange dream.
"A white dove!" echoed Jem. "Gi' it me, an ey'n wring its neck, an get it roasted for supper."
"Ye shan do nah such thing, Jem," replied Jennet. "Ey mean to gi' it to Alizon."
"Weel, weel, that's reet," rejoined Jem, blandly, "it'll may a protty offering. Let's look at it."
"Nah, nah," said Jennet, pressing the bird gently to her bosom, "neaw one shan see it efore Alizon."
"Cum along then," cried Jem, rather testily, and mending his pace, "or we'st be too late fo' t' round. Whoy yo'n scratted yourself," he added, noticing the red spots on her sleeve.
"Han ey?" she rejoined, evasively. "Oh now ey rekilect, it wos Tib did it."