To-day, however, Mrs. Poyser gave but a divided attention to the arrival of the cows, for she was in eager discussion with Dinah, who was stitching Mr. Poyser’s shirt-collars, and had borne patiently to have her thread broken three times by Totty pulling at her arm with a sudden insistence that she should look at “Baby,” that is, at a large wooden doll with no legs and a long skirt, whose bald head Totty, seated in her small chair at Dinah’s side, was caressing and pressing to her fat cheek with much fervour.  Totty is larger by more than two years’ growth than when you first saw her, and she has on a black frock under her pinafore.  Mrs. Poyser too has on a black gown, which seems to heighten the family likeness between her and Dinah.  In other respects there is little outward change now discernible in our old friends, or in the pleasant house-place, bright with polished oak and pewter.

“I never saw the like to you, Dinah,” Mrs. Poyser was saying, “when you’ve once took anything into your head:  there’s no more moving you than the rooted tree.  You may say what you like, but I don’t believe that’s religion; for what’s the Sermon on the Mount about, as you’re so fond o’ reading to the boys, but doing what other folks ’ud have you do?  But if it was anything unreasonable they wanted you to do, like taking your cloak off and giving it to ’em, or letting ’em slap you i’ the face, I daresay you’d be ready enough.  It’s only when one ’ud have you do what’s plain common sense and good for yourself, as you’re obstinate th’ other way.”

“Nay, dear Aunt,” said Dinah, smiling slightly as she went on with her work, “I’m sure your wish ’ud be a reason for me to do anything that I didn’t feel it was wrong to do.”

“Wrong!  You drive me past bearing.  What is there wrong, I should like to know, i’ staying along wi’ your own friends, as are th’ happier for having you with ’em an’ are willing to provide for you, even if your work didn’t more nor pay ’em for the bit o’ sparrow’s victual y’ eat and the bit o’ rag you put on?  An’ who is it, I should like to know, as you’re bound t’ help and comfort i’ the world more nor your own flesh and blood—­an’ me th’ only aunt you’ve got above-ground, an’ am brought to the brink o’ the grave welly every winter as comes, an’ there’s the child as sits beside you ‘ull break her little heart when you go, an’ the grandfather not been dead a twelvemonth, an’ your uncle ’ull miss you so as never was—­a-lighting his pipe an’ waiting on him, an’ now I can trust you wi’ the butter, an’ have had all the trouble o’ teaching you, and there’s all the sewing to be done, an’ I must have a strange gell out o’ Treddles’on to do it—­an’ all because you must go back to that bare heap o’ stones as the very crows fly over an’ won’t stop at.”