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“Marnin’ to ’e,” said John, who already knew the small stranger by sight.

“Marnin’, Jan Aggett.”

“An’ what might your name be, if I may ax?”

“I be called Sarah, but Sally most times; an’ I be wool-gatherin’ same as you.”

“Hast-a got gude store?”

“But little yet.”

“I’ll shaw ’e all the best plaaces, if you mind to let me.”

“Thank ’e, Jan Aggett. My mother’s a gert spinner.”

“An’ my mother’s a gert spinner tu.”

“Not so gert as mine, I reckon.”

“Never was better’n my mother.”

“Mine be better, I tell ’e! Her spins black wool an’ white together into butivul, braave grey yarn; an’ auld Churdles Ash—him what’s got the loom to Widecombe, do buy it for money, wi’ gladness.”

“Ban’t much black wool in these paarts; an’ my mother knits her worsted into clothes for me. But I’ll share what I find with you now.”

“I lay I’ll find a plenty for myself.”

“I lay you will. An’ I’ll shaw ’e wheer the blackberries be in autumn time, an’ wheer the best hurts be got out Laughter Tor way; an’ wheer the properest rexens for cannel-makingssss1 do graw.”