Summat loike that. But yo' see it ud be loike to cost so much. What wi' th' stone an' paint an' cuttin', I should na wonder if it would na coom to th' matter o' two pound--an' then theer's th' funeral." She ended with a sigh, and sank for a moment into a depressed reverie, but in the course of a few moments she roused herself again. "Tell me summat about thy feyther," she demanded. Murdoch bent down and plucked a blade of grass with a rather uncertain grasp. "There isn't much to tell," he answered. "He was unfortunate, and had a hard life--and died." Janey looked at his lowered face with a sharp, unchildish twinkle in her eye. "Would tha moind me axin thee summat?" she said. "No." But she hesitated a little before she put the question. "Is it--wur it true--as he wur na aw theer--as he wur a bit--a bit soft i' th' yed?" "No, that is not true." "I'm glad it is na," she responded. "Art tha loike him?" "I don't know." "I hope tha art na, if he did na ha' luck. Theer's a great deal i' luck." Then, with a quick change of subject,--"How did tha loike th' sermont?" "I am not sure," he answered, "that I know that either. How did you like it yourself?" "Ay," with an air of elderly approval, "it wur a good un. Mester Hixon allus gi'es us a good un. He owts wi' what he's getten to say. I loike a preacher as owts wi' it." A few moments later, when they rose to go home, her mind seemed suddenly to revert to a former train of thought. "Wur theer money i' that thing thy feyther wur tryin' at?" she asked. "Not for him, it seemed." "Ay; but theer mought be fur thee. Tha mayst ha' more in thee than he had, an' mought mak' summat on it. I'd nivver let owt go as had money i' it. Tha'dst mak' a better rich mon than Haworth." After leaving her Murdoch did not go home. He turned his back upon the village again, and walked rapidly away from it, out on the country road and across field paths, and did not turn until he was miles from Broxton. Of late he had been more than usually abstracted. He had been restless, and at times nervously unstrung. He had slept ill, and spent his days in a half-conscious mood. More than once, as they walked together, Floxham had spoken to him amazed. "What's up wi' thee, lad?" he had said. "Art dazed, or hast tha takken a turn an' been on a spree?" One night, when they were together, Haworth had picked up from the floor a rough but intricate-looking drawing, and, on handing it to him, had been bewildered by his sudden change of expression. "Is it aught of yours?" he had asked. "Yes," the young fellow had answered; "it's mine." But, instead of replacing it in his pocket, he had torn it slowly into strips, and thrown it, piece by piece, into the fire, watching it as it burned.