The girl leaned against the side of the mantel and surveyed her critically.
"You don't look that old," she said.
"Aye, but I do," returned the child, "i' tha looks at my face. I'm stunted wi' nussin', that's what mak's me so little."
She gave her face a sharp turn upward, that it might be seen.
"I've had enow to mak' me look owd, I con tell thee," she remarked.
The interest she saw in her countenance inspired her. She became comparatively garrulous upon the subject of the family anxieties. "Feyther" figured in his usual unenviable rôle, and Granny Dixon was presented in strong colors, but finally she pulled herself up and changed the subject with startling suddenness.
"I've seed thee mony a toime afore," she said, "an' I've heerd folk talk about thee. I nivver heerd him say owt about thee, though."
"Whom do you mean?" asked Christian, with a little frown.
"Mester Murdoch. We used to see a good deal on him at th' start, but we dunnot see him so often i' these days. He's gotten other places to go to. Th' quality mak' a good deal on him."
She paused and sat up, polishing brush in hand.
"I dunnot wonder as they say yo're han'some," she volunteered.
"Who says so?" coldly.
"Th' men in th' Works an' th' foak as sees yo' i' th' street. Some on 'em says you're han'somer than her—an' that's sayin' a good bit, yo' know."
"'Her' is Miss Ffrench?"
