A chill came over Ashurst's mood. Clods? With all the good will in the
world, how impossible to get on terms with them! And yet--see that girl!
Her shoes were split, her hands rough; but--what was it? Was it really
her Celtic blood, as Garton had said?--she was a lady born, a jewel,
though probably she could do no more than just read and write!
The elderly, clean-shaven man he had seen last night in the kitchen
had come into the yard with a dog, driving the cows to their milking.
Ashurst saw that he was lame.
"You've got some good ones there!"
The lame man's face brightened. He had the upward look in his eyes which
prolonged suffering often brings.
"Yeas; they'm praaper buties; gude milkers tu."
"I bet they are."
"'Ope as yure leg's better, zurr."
"Thank you, it's getting on."
The lame man touched his own: "I know what 'tes, meself; 'tes a main
worritin' thing, the knee. I've a-'ad mine bad this ten year."
Ashurst made the sound of sympathy which comes so readily from those who
have an independent income, and the lame man smiled again.
"Mustn't complain, though--they mighty near 'ad it off."
"Ho!"
"Yeas; an' compared with what 'twas, 'tes almost so gude as nu.
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