"Is she neaw comely ?--ay, comelier far than fat, fubsy Sukey here--or than Nancy Holt, wi' her yallo hure an frecklet feace--an yet ye ca' her a witch." "Ey ca' thee one, theaw feaw little whean--an the dowter--an grandowter o' one--an that's more," cried Nancy.

"Freckles i' your own feace, ye mismannert minx." "Ne'er heed her, Nance," said Phil Rawson, putting his arm round the angry damsel's waist, and drawing her gently down.

"Every one to his taste, an freckles an yellow hure are so to mine.

So dunna fret about it, an spoil your protty lips wi' pouting.

Better ha' freckles o' your feace than spots o' your heart, loike that ill-favort little hussy." "Dunna offend her, Phil," said Nancy Holt, noticing with alarm the malignant look fixed upon her lover by Jennet.