She asked her questions concerning her life and experiences, and always seemed to find her interesting. Often Janey was conscious of the fact that she stood and looked at her for some time with an air of curiosity.
"Do you," she asked her suddenly one day, "do you believe all that man says to you?"
Janey started into a sitting posture, as was her custom when roused in the midst of her labors.
"Eh! bless us! Yes," she exclaimed. "Dunnot yo'?"
"No."
Recollections of the "scarlet woman" flashed across her young hearer's mind.
"Art tha a Papist?" she gasped.
"No—not yet."
"Art tha," Janey asked, breathlessly,—"art tha goin' to be?"
"I don't know."
"An' tha—tha does na believe what Mester Hixon says?"
"No—not yet."
"What does tha believe?"
She stared up at the dark young face aghast. It was quite unmoved. The girl's eyes were fixed on space.
"Nothing."
"Wheer—wheer does tha expect to go when tha dees?"
"I don't know," she said, coldly; "very often I don't care."
Janey dropped her brush and forgot to pick it up.
"Why, bless thee!" she exclaimed with some sharpness, and also with the manner of one presenting the only practical solution of a difficulty, "tha'lt go to hell, i' tha does na repent!"
