"What is the trouble now?" Murdoch asked. "Feyther. It's allus him. He's getten in wi' a bad lot an' he's drinkin' agen. Seems loike neyther mother nor me con keep him straight fur aw we told him Haworth'll turn him off. Haworth's not goin' to stand his drink an' th' lot he goes wi'. I would na stand it mysen." "What lot does he go with?" "Eh!" impatiently, "a lot o' foo's as stands round th' publics an' grumbles at th' mesters an' th' wages they get. An' feyther's one o' these soft uns as believes aw they hears an' has na' getten gumption to think fur his sen. I've looked after him ivver sin' I wur three." She became even garrulous in her lack of patience, and was in full flow when her mother entered returning from the chapel, with a fagged face, and a large baby on her hip. "Here, tak' him, Jane Ann," she said; "but tak' off thy apron furst, or tha'lt tumble ower it an' dirty his clean bishop wi' th' muck tha's getten on it. Eh! I _am_ tired. Who's this here?" signifying Murdoch. "It's Mester Murdoch," said Janey, dropping the apron and taking the child, who made her look top-heavy. "Sit thee down, mother. Yo' needn't moind him. He's a workin' mon hissen." When Murdoch took his departure, both accompanied him to the door. "Coom in sometime when th' mester's here," said Mrs. Briarley. "Happen yo' could keep him in a neet an' that ud be summat." Half way up the lane he met Haworth in his gig, which he stopped. "Wheer hast tha been?" he asked, dropping into dialect, as he was prone to do. "To Briarley's cottage, talking to the little girl." Haworth stared at him a moment, and then burst into a laugh. "Tha'rt a queer chap," he said. "I can no more than half make thee out. If thy head was not so level, I should think tha wert a bit soft." "I don't see why," answered Murdoch, undisturbed. "The child interests me. I am not a Lancashire man, remember, and she is a new species." "Get in," said Haworth, making room for him on the seat. Murdoch got in, and as they drove on it occurred to him to ask a question. "Who's Ffrench?" "Ffrench?" said Haworth. "Oh, Ffrench is one o' th' nobs here. He's a chap with a fancy for being a gentleman-manufacturer. He's spent his brass on his notions, until he has been obliged to draw in his horns a bit. He's never lived much in Broxton, though he's got a pretty big place here. The Continent's the style for him, but he'll turn up here again some day when he's hard up enow. There's his place now." And as he spoke they drove sharply by a house standing closed among the trees and having an air of desolateness, in spite of the sun-light. CHAPTER VII. THE "WHO'D HA' THOWT IT?"