“A long time ago,” said Joe, “I had a little lass o’ my own, and she’d curly hair mich the same as thine and bonny blue e’en. Her little bed is up yon in the top chamber.” “If I was your little lass I could sleep in her little bed, couldn’t I?” returned Jinny, who was a practical young person. “Daddy’s got a lot of new childer—and I could like to have a new daddy. I’d like _you_ for my daddy, Mr Makin,” she insisted. “Well,” returned Joe, uplifting her dimpled chin with his rugged forefinger, “’tis a notion that; I reckon I could do wi’ thee very well.” “I’d sleep—in—that—little—bed—up—yon,” resumed Jinny, in a sort of chant, “and I’d sit in this here chair.” With some difficulty she dragged over the missus’s chair to the opposite side of the hearth, and climbed into it. There she sat with her curly head leaning against the back, a little hand on each of its wooden arms, and her chubby legs dangling. It was the missus’s chair, but Joe did not chide the presumptuous little occupant. On the contrary, he gave a sort of one-sided nod at her, and winked with both eyes together. “Now you are as grand as the Queen,” said he. While they were chuckling together over this sally, there came a sound of hasty steps without, followed by a knock on the door; and John Frith thrust in his head. “Eh, thou’rt theer!” he cried. “My word, Jinny, what a fright thou’s gi’en me. I thought thou was lost.” Joe removed his pipe from his mouth, and gazed at the newcomer sternly. “Hoo’s here, reet enough,” he returned. “Sit still, Jinny,” as the child, abashed, began to get down from the chair; “thou’s no need to stir—coom in if ye are coming, John,” he added, over his shoulder, “an’ shut yon door. The wind blows in strong enough to send us up the chimbley—Jinny and me.” John obediently closed the door, and came forward. He was a big, loose-limbed, good-natured looking fellow, without much headpiece the neighbours said, but with his heart in the right place. As he now advanced, his face wore an expression, half of amusement, half of concern. “Eh, whoever’d ha’ thought of her runnin’ off here!” he ejaculated. “Theer’s sich a to-do at our place as never was. Some on ’em thought hoo’d fallen down the well. Eh, Jinny, thou’lt catch it from mother. Why didn’t thou stop i’ th’ wash-house?” Jinny began to whimper, but before she could reply, Joe Makin took up the cudgels in her defence. “Stop in the wash-house indeed!” cried he. “Yo’ did ought to be ashamed o’ yo’rsel’, John Prescott. Stop in th’ wash-house on Christmas Day, to be starved wi’ cowd, an’ clemmed wi’ hunger. ‘I dunno how yo’ can call yo’rsel’ a mon an’ say sich a thing—yo’, as is her feyther an’ all.”