Lisbeth had been unusually silent
since she came downstairs, apparently requiring some time to adjust her
ideas to a state of things in which she came down like a lady to find
all the work done, and sat still to be waited on. Her new sensations
seemed to exclude the remembrance of her grief. At last, after tasting
the porridge, she broke silence:
"Ye might ha' made the parridge worse," she said to Dinah; "I can ate it
wi'out its turnin' my stomach. It might ha' been a trifle thicker an' no
harm, an' I allays putten a sprig o' mint in mysen; but how's ye t' know
that? The lads arena like to get folks as 'll make their parridge as I'n
made it for 'em; it's well if they get onybody as 'll make parridge at
all. But ye might do, wi' a bit o' showin'; for ye're a stirrin' body
in a mornin', an' ye've a light heel, an' ye've cleaned th' house well
enough for a ma'shift."
"Makeshift, mother?" said Adam. "Why, I think the house looks beautiful.
I don't know how it could look better."
"Thee dostna know? Nay; how's thee to know? Th' men ne'er know whether
the floor's cleaned or cat-licked. But thee'lt know when thee gets thy
parridge burnt, as it's like enough to be when I'n gi'en o'er makin' it.
Thee'lt think thy mother war good for summat then.
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