“If I didn’t comb my hair i’ th’ sandhills I wouldn’t comb it at all,” she returned.  “It’s the on’y place I have to do onythin’ in.  Mony a time when th’ owd lad is fuddled, me an’ my Aunt Nancy sleep on ’em.”

“Sleep out o’ doors!” ejaculated John, much scandalised.

“Aye, oftener than not, I can tell you.  Tisn’t so very coomfortable when theer’s snow about—­though we mak’ up a bit o’ fire an’ that; but it’s reet enough this time o’ year.  Aye, I like to lay awake lookin’ up at the stars, an’ listenin’ to the wayter yon.  The rabbits coom dancin’ round us, an’ th’ birds fly ower we’r ’eads when the leet cooms.  It’s gradely.”

John slowly lowered himself down on the sand beside her, as if to endeavour to look on this strange aspect of life from her level.  His respectable commercial soul was shocked, but he was nevertheless interested.

“My word!” he ejaculated; and then, after a pause, “What’s your name, if I may ask?”

“Sally.”

“Sally?  It’s a good enough name.  What’s th’ other one?”

“I haven’t got no other one as I ever heerd on.  My uncle’s Jim Whiteside, an’ soom folks call’n me Sally Whiteside, an’ then he gets mad an’ says ‘tisn’t none o’ my name.  An’ soom folks call’n me ’Cockle Sally.’  Aye, that’s what they call’n me mostly.”

Dickinson looked at her disapprovingly.  He had heard of the wild, disreputable “Cockle Folk” who roamed about the sandhills; who were worse than tramps in the opinion of respectable people, and who had, many of them, no fixed abode of any kind.

“Well,” he remarked, “it’s a pity.  I could ha’ wished ye’d ha’ belonged to different folks.  I don’t hold with these cocklers.  They’re a rough lot, ar’n’t they?”

The girl laughed.

“My Aunt Nancy says I’m as rough as ony mysel’.  Would ye like soom cockles?” she asked, breaking off suddenly.  “I’d fetch ye soom to-morrow if I’ve ony luck.  They’re chep enough—­an’ big ones.  Wheer do ye live?”

“At Mr. Waring’s farm,” responded John, distantly; adding, more truthfully than politely, “I doubt you’d best keep away though.  My aunt ’ll be none too pleased if you come yonder.”

“Aye, I knows her.  Hoo buys mony a quart of me, an’ then hoo chivies me out o’ th’ road.  I’ll coom.  If you’re not there, I’ll coom to the field.”

“Well, you might do that,” agreed John, accommodatingly.  “Some o’ th’ other chaps ’ud be glad enough to take a few of these cockles off you.  ‘Twould be a bit of a change wi’ th’ bread and cheese.  We’re goin’ to cut the big meadow to the right as you go to the village.  Come to the top of the hill, and I’ll show it you.”

“Nay, I’ll not go near field if they’re all theer.  I went once, an’ farmer he said he’d set dog at me; an’ th’ lads began o’ jokin’ an’ laughin’ at me.  Aye, I get mad wi’ nobbut thinkin’ on’t.”

She coloured as she spoke, and John’s face clouded over, as though her indignation had infected him.  In fact, he had too recently suffered from the rude jests and laughter of his fellow-labourers not to sympathise with Sally.