Marcella had already heard the story several times, but it was part of her social gift that she was a good listener to such things even at the twentieth hearing.
"You wouldn't have her back though," she said gently, turning towards the speaker.
"No, I wouldn't have her back, miss," said Mrs.Brunt, raising her hand to brush away a tear, partly the result of feeling, partly of a long-established habit.

"But I do miss her nights terrible! 'Mother, ain't it ten o'clock ?--mother, look at the clock, do, mother--ain't it time for my stuff, mother--oh, I do _hope_ it is.' That was her stuff, miss, to make her sleep.

And when she'd got it, she'd _groan_--you'd think she couldn't be asleep, and yet she was, dead-like--for two hours.
I didn't get no rest with her, and now I don't seem to get no rest without her." And again Mrs.Brunt put her hand up to her eyes.
"Ah, you were allus one for toilin' an' frettin'," said Mrs.Jellison, calmly.

"A body must get through wi' it when it's there, but I don't hold wi' thinkin' about it when it's done." "I know one," said old Patton, slily, "that fretted about _her_ darter when it didn't do her no good." He had not spoken so far, but had sat with his hands on his stick, a spectator of the women's humours.

He was a little hunched man, twisted and bent double with rheumatic gout, the fruit of seventy years of field work.