"Nowt o' th' sort! Tha's got too much pluck in thee.

When I seed thee put tha' legs on th' ground in such a hurry I knowed tha' was all right.

Sit thee down on th' rug a bit young Mester an' give me thy orders." There was a queer mixture of crabbed tenderness and shrewd understanding in his manner.

Mary had poured out speech as rapidly as she could as they had come down the Long Walk.

The chief thing to be remembered, she had told him, was that Colin was getting well--getting well.