Mrs Wharton twitched down her handkerchief and spoke in a voice that was exceedingly clear and decided. “Well, Mester Barnes, he is an’ he isn’t, if ye know what I mean. There can’t be two masters in one house, and that’s what I say—time and again I say it to our Luke. I’m fair tired sayin’ the same thing over and over again.” The farmer nodded with a kind of groan. “Jest so, Mrs Wharton, jest so. I can feel for ye there. ’Tis the very same way wi’ me an’ our Maimie. I do tell her a thing twenty times may-hap, an’ she’ll forget jest same, not but what she’s a good lass—I’d reckon you’d find her a good lass, Mrs Wharton, if you was to coom here.” “Eh, Mr Barnes,” said the widow bashfully, “whatever put that in your head? Coom here, d’ye say?” “This ’ere house,” said Jim firmly, “wants a missus summat awful, an’ I want a missus to see to things an’ keep the young folks in order, and there’s nobry in the parish I’d like better nor yourself, Mrs Wharton. You an’ me can feel for each other—ah, that we can—I don’t see nothin’ in the world to prevent us from lendin’ each other a helpin’ hand.” Mrs Wharton paused to reflect, pleating the edge of her black-edged handkerchief. “If there was but you an’ me,” she said presently, “the matter ’ud be easy settled. I could do wi’ you very well, Mester Barnes. As ye say, we can feel for one another—but there’s the childer to be thought on—all they little lads o’ mine—there is but the one lass, ye know.” “The more the merrier,” returned Jim placidly. “There’s plenty o’ little odd jobs they can be doin’ on, at arter school be over. I often wish I’d ha’ had more lads mysel’.” “Well, but,” continued Mrs Wharton, to whom the various aspects of the situation were slowly unfolding themselves, “there’s your big lass to be thought on—your Maimie. I doubt she’ll not make it so very pleasant for me. I could manage the little ones right enough—I was allus fond o’ childer. But your Maimie—I doubt we shouldn’t get on so very well together.” “Oh, ye’d get on,” said Barnes, “ye’d get on at arter a bit, I dare say.” He did not speak very confidently, however, and presently continued in a still more dubious tone: “’Tis your Luke as is a bit of a stumblin’ block. I hadn’t reckoned he were that masterful. I doubt it’ll not be easy to get him to content hissel’ wi’ workin’ here under me, at arter he’s been cock o’ the walk at your place.” “Workin’ here under you,” repeated Mrs Wharton blankly. “He’d never do that—never. I don’t know however it’s to be managed, Mester Barnes, I’m sure. I didn’t reckon to leave our place, ye see. I reckoned—well the thought jest happened to strike me, as if I was to take a second husband he’d be content to coom an’ live at the Pit.” Farmer Barnes rolled his head from side to side, and gazed at the good woman with a sternly disapproving air.