"He sent 'em, did he?" she trumpeted forth. "Haworth?"
Mrs. Haworth quailed before her.
"Yes, ma'am," she answered, "leastways——"
Granny Dixon stopped her.
He did nowt o' th' soart," she cried. "Tha'rt leein'!"
The little woman made an effort to rise, turned pale, and sat down again.
"Ma'am——" she began.
Granny Dixon's eyes sparkled.
"Tha'rt leein'," she repeated. "He's th' worst chap i' England, and aw Broxton knows it."
Her victim uttered a low cry of pain. Mrs. Briarley had left the room, and there was no one to help her. All the hints and jeers she had heard rushed back to her, but she struggled to stand up against them.
"It ain't true," she said. "It ain't—true."
Granny Dixon was just beginning to enjoy herself. A difference of opinion with Mrs. Briarley, which had occurred a short time before, had prepared her for the occasion. She knew that nothing would so much demoralize her relative and hostess as this iniquitous outbreak.
"They've been warnin' me to keep quiet an' not tell thee," she answered, "but I towd 'em I'd tell thee when I wur i' th' humor, an' I'm i' th' humor now. Will Ffrench wur a devil, but he's a bigger one yet. He kep' thee away because he did na want thee to know. He set aw th' place by th' ears. A decent woman would na cross his door-step, nor a decent mon, fur aw his brass—afore tha coom. Th' lot as he used to ha' down fro' Lunnon an' Manchester wur a shame to th' town. I've seed 'em—women in paint an' feathers, an' men as decent lasses
