“I shouldn’t wonder,” cried Mrs. Meatyard, disregarding him, “if our Rebecca didn’t have so good a chance as any one. She’s a good age, Rebecca is. Ah, I shouldn’t wonder a bit if Rebecca was to get it. I think she is the woldest woman in these parts, without it’s Mr. Sharp’s Bithey.” “Becky!” screamed Charl’ ecstatically. “Becky! Come here a minute. I’ve brought some good news for ’ee.” Becky came to the door, wiping her soapy arms with her coarse apron, and smiling pleasantly if toothlessly at the young man, who was a favourite with her. “Becky,” cried he, “how would ’ee like for to win a prize at the new Show what’s to be given in the Royal George’s grounds next month? There, Mother thinks you have got so good a chance as any one.” “I did hear as they was a-goin’ to give a prize for butter,” said Rebecca; “but all as comes out of this ’ere house be Missus’s makin’. I wasn’t never no great hand at it. Nay, I can milk and skim and churn right enough; but I haven’t Missus’s hand on butter.” “It bain’t the butter prize as I mean,” cried Charl’. “They be a-goin’ to give a prize for the woldest ’ooman-servant. I heared it wi’ my own ears, and the prize is to be a butter-dish, and you’ve just so good a right to it, Becky, as any other. Better! For I don’t believe there’s sich another old witch in the country.” “Ye’re an impident chap, Charl’,” cried Rebecca, somewhat offended. “I don’t want to listen to sich a pack of rubbish! There, I’ve a-got summat else to do. Ye mid keep a civil tongue in yer head, I think. Witch, says he! Tell him to go and drive cows up, Master, else we shan’t get through with our work this day.” “I’ll go and drive cows up right enough,” said the youth; “but ye needn’t be so highty-tighty, Beck! ’Tis truth as I be a-tellin’ ’ee. Every one be a-talkin’ of it in town.” “Dear, to be sure!” ejaculated Rebecca, partially convinced, but looking to her mistress for confirmation of the strange statement. “It do seem queer,” returned Mrs. Meatyard; “but it’s true, Becky; and as I was a-sayin’, I think you ought to try for it. You be turned seventy, bain’t you?” “I reckon I must be,” said the old woman, ruminating. “My hair have been white this twenty year and more, d’ye see; and I haven’t a tooth in my head. I must be a tremenjious age, sure!” “’Tis a bit hard to tell wi’ such as you, Beck,” remarked Farmer Meatyard, contemplating her thoughtfully. “You do seem to be sich a dried-up wold stick—ah, and have been so ever since I knowed ye. Ye’ve never looked a bit different since ye come to this ’ere village. How long ago was that, can you mind?”