As a rule, the lonely homesteads in the dales are furnished well, with objects made long since and handed down from father to son.
Then Mrs.Railton began to talk, rather nervously, and Grace turned to the farmer as the light spread about the room again.

He had a thin, lined face; his shoulders were bent, and his pose was slack.

Sickness no doubt accounted for something, but Grace imagined his attitude hinted at dejection.
"How are you to-day ?" she asked.
"No varra weel.

I'm none so young, and the wet and cold dinna agree with my oad bones.

Mayhappen I'll be better soon, but noo when I'm needed I canna get aboot." "He'll not can rest," Mrs.Railton interposed.