oloured at his uncle's amused laugh; his
love and loyalty to his mother were much tried when she made a speech of
this kind, which, to do her justice, was not often, and generally was, as
in this case, an echo of her husband's opinions. 'My dear mother, I had
no idea that it was Brown you had here. Why, he's a gentleman we might be
proud to see at our table. I wish I had been at home,' he said hastily.

'W'at did 'e call 'isself Mr Brown for, then? If we'd known 'e was a Sir
John it would 'ave made all the difference,' objected Mrs Clay.

'It ought not to have made any difference. A man's a man, and with a
talent like that even father might have known better than to treat him
like a servant,' cried Sarah hotly.

'Well, it doesn't matter; it's over and past now. And he wasn't Sir John
then; he's only just been made so, and I dare say he's forgotten all
about Ousebank and his treatment here; and for my part I'd sooner have a
picture on canvas that you can take away than a painted panel. It's a lot
of money to give for that; though, to be sure, he can afford that, can
Mark,' said Mr Howroyd.

'Uncle Howroyd, why do you waste time at the end of your sentences like
that, when you are always saying you have no time to waste, because it is
so precious?'

'What are you after now, lass?' said her uncle, bending his keen and
kindly eyes upon his young niece. 'I expect it's your uncle's rough
north-country tongue that's the matter. Come, out with it. What have I
said wrong now?'

'Oh, I don't mind your north-country tongue, as you call it, only I don't
like the way you repeat yourself. You say, "That's a fine picture, is
that," or "She's a good girl, is Sarah;" and it would be quite enough and
shorter to say, "That is a fine picture," or "Sarah is a good girl."'

'Sarah! There's manners, correctin' your uncle; a chit o' sixteen that's
not left school yet!' protested Mrs Clay.

'Don't you be corrected, Uncle Howroyd. It's very musical the way
north-countrymen repeat themselves at the end of the sentence,' said
George gently.

Mr Howroyd paid no attention to the last two speakers, but, with an
amused twinkle in his eye, tried the two ways of expressing himself.
'You're right, lass; it's a waste of words, is that.'

There was a hearty laugh at this, in which both Mrs Clay and her
brother-in-law joined, as the latter said, with a shake of his head, 'I'm
afraid I'm too old to get out of the habit of repeating myself. Still,