“Ey didna mean to offend ye, Jennet,” sobbed Susan, “boh yo’re so wrythen an marr’d, a body canna speak to please ye.”

“Weel, if ye confess your fault, ey’m satisfied,” replied the little girl; “boh let it be a lesson to ye, Suky, to keep guard o’ your tongue i’ future.”

“It shall, ey promise ye,” replied Susan, drying her eyes.

At this moment a door opened, and a woman entered from an inner room, having a high-crowned, conical-shaped hat on her head, and broad white pinners over her cheeks.  Her dress was of dark red camlet, with high-heeled shoes.  She stooped slightly, and being rather lame, supported herself on a crutch-handled stick.  In age she might be between forty and fifty, but she looked much older, and her features were not at all prepossessing from a hooked nose and chin, while their sinister effect was increased by a formation of the eyes similar to that in Jennet, only more strongly noticeable in her case.  This woman was Elizabeth Device, widow of John Device, about whose death there was a mystery to be inquired into hereafter, and mother of Alizon and Jennet, though how she came to have a daughter so unlike herself in all respects as the former, no one could conceive; but so it was.

“Soh, ye ha donned your finery at last, Alizon,” said Elizabeth.  “Your brother Jem has just run up to say that t’ rush-cart has set out, and that Robin Hood and his merry men are comin’ for their Queen.”

“And their Queen is quite ready for them,” replied Alizon, moving towards the door.

“Neigh, let’s ha’ a look at ye fust, wench,” cried Elizabeth, staying her; “fine fitthers may fine brids—­ey warrant me now yo’n getten these May gewgaws on, yo fancy yourself a queen in arnest.”

“A queen of a day, mother; a queen of a little village festival; nothing more,” replied Alizon.  “Oh, if I were a queen in right earnest, or even a great lady—­”

“Whot would yo do?” demanded Elizabeth Device, sourly.

“I’d make you rich, mother, and build you a grand house to live in,” replied Alizon; “much grander than Browsholme, or Downham, or Middleton.”

“Pity yo’re nah a queen then, Alizon,” replied Elizabeth, relaxing her harsh features into a wintry smile.

“Whot would ye do fo me, Alizon, if ye were a queen?” asked little Jennet, looking up at her.

“Why, let me see,” was the reply; “I’d indulge every one of your whims and wishes.  You should only need ask to have.”

“Poh—­poh—­yo’d never content her,” observed Elizabeth, testily.

“It’s nah your way to try an content me, mother, even whon ye might,” rejoined Jennet, who, if she loved few people, loved her mother least of all, and never lost an opportunity of testifying her dislike to her.

“Awt o’pontee, little wasp,” cried her mother; “theaw desarves nowt boh whot theaw dustna get often enough—­a good whipping.”

“Yo hanna towd us whot yo’d do fo yurself if yo war a great lady, Alizon?” interposed Susan.