Briarley sidled forward and seated himself upon the edge of a chair; his smile broadened steadily, but he was in a tremendous minority. Granny Dixon transfixed him with her baleful eye, and under its influence the smile was graduated from exhilarated friendliness to gravity, from gravity to gentle melancholy, from melancholy to deepest gloom. But at this stage a happy thought struck him and he beamed again. "How--how art tha doin', Misses?" he quavered. "I hope tha'rt makin' thysen comfortable." The reception this polite anxiety met with was not encouraging. Granny Dixon's eye assumed an expression still more baleful. "Tha'st been at it again," she shouted. "Tha'st been at it again. Tha'll neer git none o' my brass to spend at th' ale-house. Mak' sure o' that." Mr. Briarley turned his attention to the fire again. Melancholy was upon the point of marking him for her own, when the most delicate of tact came to his rescue. "It is na thy brass we want, Misses," he proclaimed. "It's--it's thy comp'ny." And then clenched the matter by adding still more feebly, "Ay, to be sure it's thy comp'ny, is na it, Sararann?" "Ay," faltered Mrs. Briarley, "_to_ be sure." "It's nowt o' th' soart," answered Granny Dixon, in the tone of the last trump. "An' dunnot yo' threep me down as it is." Mr. Briarley's countenance fell. Mrs. Briarley shed a few natural tears under cover of the baby; discretion and delicacy forbade either to retort. Their venerable guest having badgered them into submission glared at the fire with the air of one who detected its feeble cunning and defied it. It was Mr. Briarley who first attempted to recover cheerfulness. "Tha'st had quality to see thee, Sararann," he ventured. "Our Jane towd me." "Ay," answered Mrs. Briarley, tearfully. Mr. Briarley fell into indiscreet reverie. "The chap as gets her," he said, "'ll get a han'some lass. I would na moind," modestly, "I would na moind bein' i' his shoes mysen." Mrs. Briarley's smothered wrongs broke forth. "Thee!" she cried out. "Tha brazant nowt! I wonder tha'rt na sham't o' thy face--talkin' i' that rood about a lady, an' afore thy own wife! I wonder tha art na sham't." Mr. Briarley's courage forsook him. He sought refuge in submissive penitence almost lachrymose. "I did na mean nowt, Sararann," he protested meekly. "It wur a slip o' th' tongue, lass. I'm--I'm not th' build as a young woman o' that soart ud be loike to tak' up wi'." "Yo' wur good enow fur me onct," replied Mrs. Briarley, sharply. "A noice un yo' are settin' yore wedded wife below other people--as if she wur dirt." "Ay, Sararann," the criminal faltered, "I wur good enow fur yo' but--but--yo----" But at this point he dropped his head upon his hand, shaking it in mournful contrition. "I'm a poor chap," he said. "I'm nowt but a poor chap as is allus i' trouble. I'm not th' man yo' ought to ha' had, Sararann."