“By my faith, your lips are so sweet that I must have another,” cried Nicholas.  “I tell you what, Bess, you’re the finest woman in Lancashire, and you owe it to the county to get married.”

“Whoy so?” said Bess.

“Because it would be a pity to lose the breed,” replied Nicholas.  “What say you to Master Potts there?  Will he suit you?”

“He—­pooh!  Do you think ey’d put up wi’ sich powsement os he!  Neaw; when Bess Whitaker, the lonleydey o’ Goldshey, weds, it shan be to a mon, and nah to a ninny-hommer.”

“Bravely resolved, Bess,” cried Nicholas.  “You deserve another kiss for your spirit.”

“Ha’ done, ey say,” cried Bess, dealing him a gentle tap that sounded very much like a buffet.  “See how yon jobberknow is grinning at ye.”

“Jobberknow and ninny-hammer,” cried Potts, furiously; “really, woman, I cannot permit such names to be applied to me.”

“Os yo please, boh ey’st gi’ ye nah better,” rejoined the hostess.

“Come, Bess, a truce to this,” observed Nicholas; “the eggs and bacon are spoiling, and I’m dying with hunger.  There—­there,” he added, clapping her on the shoulder, “set the dish before us, that’s a good soul—­a couple of plates, some oatcakes and butter, and we shall do.”

And while Bess attended to these requirements, he observed, “This sudden seizure of poor John Law is a bad business.”

“’Deed on it is, squoire,” replied Bess, “ey wur quite glopp’nt at seet on him.  Lorjus o’ me! whoy, it’s scarcely an hour sin he left here, looking os strong an os ’earty os yersel.  Boh it’s a kazzardly onsartin loife we lead.  Here to-day an gone the morrow, as Parson Houlden says.  Wall-a-day!”

“True, true, Bess,” replied the squire, “and the best plan therefore is, to make the most of the passing moment.  So brew us each a lusty pottle of sack, and fry us some more eggs and bacon.”

And while the hostess proceeded to prepare the sack, Potts remarked to Nicholas, “I have got another case of witchcraft, squire.  Mary Baldwyn, the miller’s daughter, of Rough Lee.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Nicholas.  “What, is the poor girl bewitched?”

“Bewitched to death—­that’s all,” said Potts.

“Eigh—­poor Meary! hoo’s to be berried here this mornin,” observed Bess, emptying the bottle of sherris into a pot, and placing the latter on the fire.

“And you think she was forespoken?” said Nicholas, addressing her.

“Folk sayn so,” replied Bess; “boh I’d leyther howd my tung about it.”

“Then I suppose you pay tribute to Mother Chattox, hostess?” cried Potts,—­“butter, eggs, and milk from the farm, ale and wine from the cellar, with a flitch of bacon now and then, ey?”

“Nay, by th’ maskins! ey gi’ her nowt,” cried Bess.

“Then you bribe Mother Demdike, and that comes to the same thing,” said Potts.

“Weel, yo’re neaw so fur fro’ t’ mark this time,” replied Bess, adding eggs, sugar, and spice to the now boiling wine, and stirring up the compound.