“I dunnot want to do for nobry, nobbut mysel’,” returned Margaret with a toss of her head.  “Did ye think I’d be for takkin’ lodgers at this time o’ day?” she added suspiciously.  “Nay, nay, I’ll noan ha’ strangers here, botherin’ an’ messin’ about.”

“Eh, I wasn’t thinkin’ o’ strangers,” explained Wharton, hitching his chair a little nearer.  “I were jest wonderin’ to mysel’, seein’ you’re so manageable an’ clever an’ that, as you hadn’t never thought o’ gettin’ wed an’ doin’ for a husband as well as yoursel’.  I raly do wonder, Miss Heptonstall,” he repeated insinuatingly, “as ye haven’t getten wed.”

He expected Margaret to be surprised and flattered, but she gave no indication of being either the one or the other.  She fixed her steely blue eyes sternly on the visitor, and inquired stiffly what he thought she wanted a husband for, and what use he reckoned sich-like ’ud be to her.  Ted edged his chair yet a little nearer, and thrust forward his face till it was within a yard of Margaret’s.

“A good husband ’ud be a great comfort to ye, Miss Heptonstall,” he urged.  “He’d—­he’d love ye, ye know”—­(hesitating)—­“an’ work for ye.”

This last was said with more assurance.  Margaret appeared unconvinced.

“Eh, he’d be more bother than he was worth,” she remarked trenchantly.  “Think ‘o th’ litter alone he’d mak’ coomin’ in an’ out o’ th’ house.  It’s bad enough to be cleanin’ up arter th’ cats an’ the dog—­poor dumb things, they knows no better!  But a mon stumpin’ in an’ out wi’s dirty boots, an’ clooes as ‘ud allus want mendin’, an’ stockin’s weerin’ at th’ ’eel!  Eh, theer’d be no end to ‘t!  An’ then th’ doin’ for; gettin’s mate an’ that—­turnin’ up ‘s nose very like—­ill-satisfied wi’ a washin’-day dinner!  Nay, nay, I’d sooner bide as I am wi’ nobbut mysel’ to look to.”

Ted threw back his head and coughed behind his hand, nonplussed for the moment; presently, noting that the practical side of the case was the only one likely to meet with favour, he resumed artfully—­“Think how coomfortable it ‘ud be of a rainy day, i’stead o’ startin’ out i’ th’ wet to feed pig an’ do for chickens, to say to your gaffer, ‘Sitha, thou mun see to they things afore thou goes to thy wark’—­an’ of an evening, when he’ coom awhoam, ye could set him to get th’ ‘taters, an’ chop wood an’ that.”

Margaret crossed her arms and appeared to reflect.

“An’ of a Saturday—­pay day, ye know—­ye’d jest say:  ’Hand o’er, wilto?’ An’ he’d hand o’er.”

A faint smile began to play about the lady’s lips; she leaned back in her chair and looked attentively at Ted.

“’Tisn’t everybody as ‘ud be willin’ to do that,” she remarked after a pause; “theer’s a mony as ‘ud sooner spend their brass at th’ Thornleigh Arms.”

Ted privately thought this extremely likely, but he assumed an air of virtuous indignation.

“Theer’s chaps an’ chaps!  I reckon if onybody was to ax to wed you, Miss Heptonstall, he’d be a steady-goin’ sort o’ fellow as wouldn’t be up to they mak’ o’ games.”