And that young man there'-- she pointed to the cradle; 'there's about as much sleep ill him as there is in that eight-day clock! You rascal, you!' Like her brother, she had the northern accent still lingering in her speech; it suited with her brisk, hearty ways.

Whilst speaking, she had partly moved the horse from the fire and placed a round-backed chair for the visitor in a position which would have answered tolerably had she meant to roast him.
'He's in the sulks, that's what he is,' she continued, returning to the subject of Luke.

'I suppose you know all about it, Mr.Grail ?' Gilbert seated himself, and Mrs.Poole, pretending to arrange the linen, stood just before him, with a sly smile.
'I'm not sure that I do,' he replied, avoiding her look.
She lowered her voice.
'The idea of a great lad going on like he does! Why, it's the young lady that lives in your house--Miss Trent, you know, I don't know her myself; no doubt she's wonderful pretty and all the rest of it, but I'm that sick and tired of hearing about her! My husband's out a great deal at night, of course, and Luke comes and sits here hours by the clock, just where you are, right in my way.

I don't mean _you're_ in my way; I'm talking of times when I'm busy.

Well, there he sits; and sometimes he'll be that low it's enough to make a body strangle herself with her apron-string.