“Picturesque!  I never thought of Methodism in that way, John; but I’ll tell thee, it took the very heart of Yorkshire and set it to song and prayer—­and cotton-spinning.  It stopped a deal of gambling and racing and dog-and cock-fighting, and chapels and mills grew together all over the length and breadth of Yorkshire.  They did that, and all that!  I’ve heard my father say so many a time.  Make haste now, my lad, dinner will spoil if tha keeps it waiting.  Methodism is like enough to stand forever.”

In this conversation Mrs. Hatton had dropped easily and naturally into the Yorkshire speech, as all Yorkshire people do when heart-touched.  For Yorkshire is neither a dialect nor a patois; it is the pure English of a thousand years ago, the English Chaucer spoke, and which Yorkshire has preserved in all its purity—­especially about the Craven district.  Mrs. Hatton had gone through finishing schools of the latest fashion and she made no trips in her usual social conversation, unless deeply moved, but if a little Yorkshire was a fault, it was a very general one, and there was no interesting conversation without such lapses into English pure and undefiled and often startlingly picturesque and to the point.

When John had left her she took her herbs to the still room, laid them in their places, and removed the large white linen apron which covered her from head to feet.  Then she stood beautifully gowned in black satin with fine thread-lace cuffs turned back nearly to the elbows and a large collar of the same lace fastened at the throat with a brooch of gold and diamonds.  Her black hair was fashionably dressed and finished with a small cap of lace and pink ribbon, and her feet shod in black satin sandals—­a splendid woman of fifty-three years old, showing every grace at its finest with as yet no sign of decay in any of them.

John gave her his arm proudly, but he noticed that her face clouded before she was seated.  She would not ask as to Harry’s whereabouts, but she missed his presence, and anger grew in her heart.  “He is with that girl,” she thought, and she was sick with anxiety and inquietude.  The roast sirloin was done to the last perfect minute, and the Yorkshire pudding deliciously brown and light; the table was set without a flaw or a “forget,” and the fire and light just as they should be.  There was no obvious outlet for her annoyance, and it took away her appetite and made her silent.

John tried various interesting public topics—­topics she had been eager about; but every allusion to them at this hour was scornfully received.  Then he made a social effort.  “I met Miss Phyllis Broadbent today, mother,” he said.

“Where did you meet her?”

“She was walking past the mill.”

“Waiting for you—­and I’ll warrant it.”

“I would not say that much, mother.  She was out collecting for the new cooking-school.  She said she wanted to see you very much.”