THOMAS. [_Setting down his mug and coming to the table_.] I’d leave the windows bare if it was me, Emily. The creeping rose do form the suitablest shade for they, to my thinking. EMILY. That shews how much you know about it, Thomas. No, take your hands from off my table. Do you think as I wants dirty thumbs shewing all over the clean net what I’ve washed and dried and ironed, and been a-messing about with since ’twas light? THOMAS. Now that’s what I be trying for to say. There’s no need for you to go and work yourself into the fidgets, Emily, because of little Clara coming back. Home’s home. And ’twon’t be neither the curtains nor the hot dinner as Clara will be thinking of when her steps into th’ old place once more. JESSIE. [_Running back with the hot iron which she sets down on the table_.] What will Aunt Clara be thinking of then, Dad? THOMAS. [_Shy and abashed under a withering glance from_ EMILY _who has taken up the iron and is slamming it down on the net_.] Her’ll remember, very like, how ’twas when her left—some fourteen year ago. And her’ll have her eyes on Gran’ma’s chair, what’s empty. ROBIN. I should be thinking of the hot fowl and sparrow grass what’s for dinner. THOMAS. And her’ll look up to th’ old clock, and different things what’s still in their places. The grand parts where she have been bred up will be forgot. ’Twill be only home as her’ll think on. EMILY. I haven’t patience to listen to such stuff. THOMAS. [_After a pause_.] I count that ’tisn’t likely as a young woman what’s been left riches as Clara have, would choose to make her home along of such as we for always, like. EMILY. We have perches and plenty of them for barn door poultry, but when it comes to roosting spangled plumes and fancy fowls, no thank you, Thomas, I’m not going to do it. ROBIN. Do let us get and roost some fancy fowls, Mother. JESSIE. What are spangled plumes, Mother? EMILY. [_Viciously_.] You’ll see plenty of them presently. ROBIN. Will Aunt Clara bring the fowls along of she? [_A slight pause during which_ EMILY _irons vigorously_. EMILY. [_As she irons_.] Some folk have all the honey. It do trickle from the mouths of them and down to the ground. ROBIN. Has Aunt Clara got her mouth very sticky, then? EMILY. And there be others what are born to naught but crusts and the vinegar. JESSIE. Like you, Mother—Least, that’s what Maggie said this morning. EMILY. What’s that? JESSIE. That ’twas in the vinegar jar as your tongue had growed, Mother. EMILY. I’ll learn that wench to keep her thoughts to herself if she can’t fetch them out respectful like. [_Shouting_.] Mag, come you here this minute—what are you after now, I’d like to know, you ugly, idle piece of mischief? [MAGGIE, _wiping a plate comes from the back kitchen_. MAGGIE. Was you calling, mistress? EMILY. What’s this you’ve got saying to Miss Jessie, I should like to know.