“I’m not one as ’ud allow no carryin’s on,” she returned loftily. “When the man come and axed Jenny--that was her name--I says to her, ‘Not with my consent,’ I says--well, she took and got married wi’out it.” “Lard ha’ mercy me,” ejaculated the listener, seeing that she was expected to say something, “well, that was----” she hesitated, “I s’pose the man wasn’t one as you’d ha’ picked for her, Mrs. Chaffey? Maybe,” she added darkly, “he wasn’t in work?” “He was in work,” replied Mrs. Chaffey solemnly, “reg’lar. Oh, e-es, he was in _work_.” Mrs. Cross was a good deal mystified, and being too uncertain of her ground to venture on a comment, contented herself with clicking her tongue and turning up her eyes. “’Tis a queer tale; ’tis indeed,” resumed the widow; “but as I did often say to she arter the job was done: ‘Don’t blame me, Jenny--what you did do, you did do wi’ your eyes open. I’ve a-told you plain,’ I says, ‘I’ve gied ye the best advice. Stay,’ I says, ‘where you’re well off. You’ve a-got a good home,’ I did tell her, ‘and one what is a mother to ye--don’t ye go for to take up with this ’ere stranger.’” “Ah,” interrupted Mrs. Cross, beginning to think she at last saw daylight, “he was a stranger, was he?” “He was a man what come to the door,” returned the other impressively, “what come to the door like any tramp. I did take en to be a tramp first off.” “Oh, and he wasn’t a tramp then?” put in her neighbour, slightly disappointed. “He _mid_ ha’ been one,” resumed the narrator, with a dignified wave of the hand intended to discourage further unnecessary and frivolous questions. “I’m willing to tell ’ee about it, Mrs. Cross, if you be willing to listen. ’Twas a Sunday of all days. We’d a’ been pretty busy till dinner-time. I’d got Jenny up soon arter four to get through wi’ cleanin’ up--I’m always one what likes to have the place reg’lar perfect, ye know--and by the time I come down for breakfast she’d a’ got everything straight. Well, her an’ me fell out--she did want if ye please to go to church wi’ I--so I says to her, ‘Who’s to get dinner then? Be I to wait on you?’ says I. ‘No,’ I says, ‘you stay at home and do your dooty, and you can go to the childern’s service in the afternoon if you behave well,’ says I. Well, but she wouldn’t hear reason; I did leave her cryin’ like a baby. “I were a bit late comin’ back--chattin’ to this one and that one, an’ when I got in, what did I see but a strange man by the fire. Ye could ha’ knocked I down wi’ a feather. I did jist drap in the first chair I come to and p’int that way wi’ my finger--I couldn’t get out a word.