"They'll deave yo, down i' th' town, wi their noise.--Yo'd think they were warked to deäth.--Bit, yo can see for yorsen. Why, a farmin mon mut be allus agate: in t' mornin, what wi' cawves to serve, an t' coos to feed, an t' horses to fodder, yo're fair run aff your legs. Bit down i' Whinthorpe--or Froswick ayder, fer it's noa odds--why, theer's nowt stirrin for a yoong mon. If cat's loose, that's aboot what!" Laura's face lit up. Very few things now had power to please her but Daffady's dialect, and Daffady's scorns. "And so all the world is idle but you farm people?" "A doan't say egsackly idle," said Daffady, with a good-humoured tolerance. "But the factory-hands, Daffady?" "O!--a little stannin an twiddlin!" said Daffady contemptuously--"I allus ses they pays em abuve a bit." "But the miners?--come, Daffady!" "I'm not stannin to it aw roond," said Daffady patiently--"I laid it down i' th' general." "And all the people, who work with their heads, Daffady, like--like my papa?" The girl smiled softly, and turned her slim neck to look at the old man. She was charmingly pretty so, among the shadows of the farm kitchen--but very touching--as the old man dimly felt. The change in her that worked so uncomfortably upon his rustic feelings went far deeper than any mere aspect of health or sickness. The spectator felt beside her a ghostly presence--that "sad sister, Pain"--stealing her youth away, smile as she might. "I doan't knaw aboot them, Missie--nor aboot yor fadther--thoo I'll uphod tha Muster Stephen was a terr'ble cliver mon. Bit if yo doan't bring a gude yed wi yo to th' farmin yo may let it alane.--When th' owd measter here was deein, Mr. Hubert was verra down-hearted yo understan, an verra wishfa to say soomat frendly to th' owd man, noo it had coom to th' lasst of im. 'Fadther'--he ses--'dear fadther--is there nowt I could do fer tha?'--'Aye, lad'--ses th' owd un--'gie me thy yed, an tak mine--thine is gude enoof to be buried wi.' An at that he shet his mouth, and deed." Daffady told his story with relish. His contempt for Hubert was of many years' standing. Laura lifted her eyebrows. "That was sharp, for the last word. I don't think you should stick pins when you're dying--_dying_!"--she repeated the word with a passionate energy--"going quite away--for ever." Then, with a sudden change of tone--"Can I have the cart to-morrow, Daffady?" Daffady, who had been piling the fire with fresh peat, paused and looked down upon her. His long, lank face, his weather-stained clothes, his great, twisted hand were all of the same colour--the colour of wintry grass and lichened rock. But his eyes were bright and blue, and a vivid streak of white hair fell across his high forehead. As the girl asked her question, the old man's air of fatherly concern became more marked. "Mut yo goa, missie? It did yo noa gude lasst time." "Yes, I must go. I think so--I hope so!"--She checked herself. "But I'll wrap up."