“I wish to goodness t’ Sperrit ’ud move someb’dy to talk!” she said. “I should be fain of a few more young’uns to sing for us, for all they bring a lot o’ muck in. It’s fair wearisome sitting by t’ hour together, same as we were a lot o’ mutes.” “Nay, I don’t know about that, lass,” replied the old woman. “I was never one for a deal o’ chattering myself, and there’s awlus a deal to think about. I can pass my time nicely wi’ them ’at’s gone, for they were a better breed i’ my young days nor what we’ve getten now.” “And whose fault is that?” inquired Maniwel, who had not been too absorbed in his book to overhear what was said. “Who brought these we’ve got now into t’ world? There’s a bit i’ t’ Book ’at you must ha’ missed, where it reads ’at we’re not to talk about t’ former days being better than our own, ’cause there’s no sense in it. What about t’ mischief nights ’at father used to tell about, when they lifted t’ gates off o’ their hinges, and stole t’ goose out o’ t’ larder, and such like tricks at Christmas time? You’d look well if they were to fetch to-morrow’s dinner while you were abed, mother.” “I should happen miss it less nor some,” replied the old woman placidly. “I reckon naught o’ bits o’ marlacks same as them. Lads is lads, and mischief comes nat’ral to ’em; and if there’s less on’t now it’s ’cos they haven’t t’ sperrit they used to have, let t’ Book say what it will.” Maniwel looked across at his mother with great good-humour. He knew that her grumblings were not very sincere, and that she was probably happier than she had been in the old days that had been drab enough until the sunset tints of life’s eventide fell upon them. She spent the greater part of her time now dreaming dreams, and it pleased him to rouse her, and see the light of battle shine feebly in her eye again. “Nay, mother,” he said; “you’ll wriggle loose choose how fast we tie you up. I never saw such a woman—why you’re as slippy as an eel. When there’s a bit o’ mischief goes on i’ t’ village you shake your head and think t’ Owd Lad’s got us on his fork; and when there isn’t, you say ’at we’re short o’ sperrit and t’ world’s going back’ards way! It’s heads win and tails loses every time!”