"Th’ Maister went through it without a scratch, for all that, though they say he fought twice for ivery one o’ t’ others. Ay, his father war like that when th’ owd quarrel war agate—allus i’ th’ front, yet niver taking so mich as a skin-prick till th’ time came for him to dee." "How long ago war that, Hiram? I’ve heard tell o’ th’ owd feud, but it mun hev been a long while back." "Longer nor ye can call to mind, lass. ’Twas a sight o’ years back, afore tha wert born or thought of." Another soft glance from Martha. "I shouldn’t hev thought _tha’d_ hev remembered it so weel, Hiram," she murmured. "Tha talks as if tha wert owd enough to be a girt-grandfather to sich a little un as me." Hiram saw his error. "Nay, I’m youngish still, Martha," he put in hastily, with a tell-tale pulling of his hat over the widening patch of forehead that showed beneath the brim. "’Tis hard thinking that thins a body’s thatch, an’ when I call to mind what a power o’ sense I’ve learned sin’ being a lad, I wonder I’m not as bald as a moor-tit’s egg. Well, tha mud find younger men nor me, but——" "I set no store by youngness, Hiram. I allus did say a wise head war th’ best thing a man could hev." "Begow, but tha’rt a shrewd un, Martha, as weel as a bonnie un!" cried Hiram, and checked himself. "Yond’s a tidy slice o’ land," he said, nodding at the dusty furrows in front of them. But Martha knew her own mind. "I’d liefer talk about thee, Hiram, that I wod," she said. "Land’s theer ony day we want to look at it!" "Well, now, there’s summat i’ that," he answered, with a shade of uneasiness in his voice. "Where hast been, like, for th’ milk, lass? ’Tisn’t every day I find thee stirring so far fro’ Marsh." "I’ve been to th’ High Farm, for sure. What wi’ milk for th’ new-weaned calves, an’ for churning, an’ what not, we shouldn’t hev hed a sup i’ th’ house down at Marsh if I hadn’t come a-borrowing." "There’s waste somewhere, I’m thinking," said Hiram sadly. "Th’ roan cow war niver fuller i’ milk nor now, an’ yond little dappled beast I bought off Tom o’ Dick’s o’ Windytop is yielding grandly. Nay, nay, there’s waste at Marsh! I said how ’twould be when young Maister took hod o’ th’ reins." "Waste, is there? I’d like thee to hev a week or two at managing, Hiram; tha’d see how far a score quarts o’ milk ’ull go, wi’ four growing lads an’ th’ Maister, an’ all ye lubbering farm-folk to feed. But theer! Men niver can thoyle to see owt go i’ housekeeping; an’ I’ll be bidding thee good-day, Hiram, as tha’s getten no likelier sort o’ talk nor that." She made pretence to lift her pail from the top of the stile, and Hiram so far forgot his caution as to put a hand on her dimpled arm. "Sakes, lass, I wodn’t hev thee go!" he cried.