The recollection of the fact seemed to enliven her so far that she was inspired to conducting the greater part of the conversation herself. Her voice grew louder and louder, a dull red began to show itself on her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled. She had been "a han'some lass, seventy year' ago, an' had had her day--as theer wur dead folk could tell." "She'll go on i' that rood aw neet, if summat dunnot tak' her off it," said Janey. "She loikes to talk about that theer better than owt else." But something did happen "to tak' her off it." "Tha'st getten some reason i' thee," she announced. "Tha does na oppen tha mouth as if tha wanted to swally folk when tha says what tha'st getten to say. Theer's no workin' men's ways about thee--cloas or no cloas." "That's th' way she goes on," said Janey. "She canna bide folk to look soft when they're shoutin' to her. That was one o' th' things she had agen Mester Hixon. She said he getten so red i' th' face it put her out o' patience." "I loike a mon as is na a foo'," proclaimed Granny Dixon. But there her voice changed and grew sharp and tremulous. "Wheer's that flower?" she cried. "Who's getten it?" Janey turned toward the door and uttered a shrill little cry of excitement. "It's Miss Ffrench," she said. "She's--she's stondin' at th' door." It would have been impossible to judge from her expression how long she had been there. She stood upon the threshold with a faint smile on her lips, and spoke to Janey. "I want to see your mother," she said. "I'll--I'll go and tell her," the child faltered. "Will yo' coom in?" She hesitated a second and then came in. Murdoch had arisen. She did not seem to see him as she passed before him to reach the chair in which she sat down. In fact she expressed scarcely a shadow of recognition of her surroundings. But upon Granny Dixon had fallen a sudden feverish tremor. "Who did she say yo' wur?" she cried. "I did na hear her." The visitor turned and confronted her. "I am Rachel Ffrench," she answered in a clear, high voice. The dull red deepened upon the old woman's cheeks, and her eyes gained new fire. "Yo're a good un to mak' a body hear," she said. "An' I know yo'." Miss Ffrench made no reply. She smiled incredulously at the fire. The old woman moved restlessly. "Ay, but I do," she cried. "I know yo'. Yo're Ffrench fro' head to foot. Wheer did yo' get that?" She was pointing to a flower at Miss Ffrench's throat--a white, strongly fragrant, hot-house flower. Miss Ffrench cast a downward glance at it. "There are plenty to be had," she said. "I got it from home." "I've seen 'em before," said Granny Dixon. "_He_ used to wear 'em i' his button-hole." Miss Ffrench made no reply and she went on, her tones increasing in volume with her excitement. "I'm talkin' o' Will Ffrench," she said. "He wur thy gran'feyther. He wur dead afore yo' wur born." Miss Ffrench seemed scarcely interested, but Granny Dixon had not finished.