“Well, now, ’tis a bit hard to reckon, Master—one year do seem so like another, and the days do follow each other so fast. I lived down at Childe-Okeford till I were thirty year of age, and then when mother died I went to service, and I were ten year or thereabouts at a farm Shillingstone way, and eight year at a public, and fifteen year at another farm a mile out of Sturminster—I think ’twas fifteen year, but it mid ha’ been eighteen—and then I’ve been here the rest of the time.” “An’ that must be twelve year or more,” put in her mistress, “for I can call to mind as Charl’ there was only just breeched when you did come.” “Why, woman, you must be comin’ on for eighty,” cried the farmer, half-admiringly, half-disapprovingly. “Bless me, ye haven’t no business to be alive at all!” “He, he,” chuckled Becky. “Here I be, ye see, sir; and if there’s to be a prize for wold folks, I shouldn’t wonder if I did get it.” “I can’t call to mind anybody else in these parts as can beat ye if your tale be true,” returned he, “unless it’s Mr. Sharp’s Bithey. She be a wonderful age, now—I shouldn’t wonder if she’s turned her four score.” “Lard, no, sir!” cried Rebecca, with a sudden cessation of her laughter, while a flush began to mount in her shrivelled cheeks. “Bithey! Why, she’s no age at all to speak on. She’ve ha’ got very near all her teeth, and her hair—what there is of it, they do say is as black as can be under that wold woolly net as she do wear. She don’t come up to my age, Master!” “She runs you very near though, Beck,” cried mischievous Charl’, beginning to caper with glee. “She’s oncommon hard o’ hearin’, and she do get the rheumatiz so bad in her j’ints. Ther’ be times, Mr. Sharp do say, as she can scarce walk.” “Pooh,” cried Rebecca, with fine scorn, “what signifies that? A child mid get rheumatiz, and I’ve ha’ knowed folks so young as Missus be hard o’ hearin’. That don’t prove nothin’. There, I must give over talkin’ here, and get back to my work.” She retired, muttering to herself and shaking her head, while Charl’, still chuckling, went off to fetch the cows. He came back in a state of explosive excitement, and immediately called his parents out of hearing of Rebecca, who had stalked loftily past him, armed with stool and pail. “You’ll never guess what I’ve been doin’,” he began. “Jist as I was crossin’ the lane down yonder, who should I see but wold Bithey toddlin’ along in front of me; so I hollers after her, and tells her all about the prize, and did advise her to go in for it, and the wold body is that set up about it ’tis as good as a play. She makes sure she is goin’ to win it, and thinks nothin’ at all o’ poor Beck’s chance. Lard, ’twill be rare sport to set the two wold folks one again t’other.” The father laughed jovially, but the mother inquired in an aggrieved tone why he had interfered and lessened poor Rebecca’s chance.