She was
absolutely alone in the world. Nobody knew what she had to live on. But
she could always find a crust for some one more destitute than herself,
and she ranked high among the wits of the village. To Diana she talked
of her predecessors--the Vavasours--whose feudal presence seemed to be
still brooding over the village. With little chuckles of laughter, she
gave instance after instance of the tyranny with which they had lorded
it over the country-side in early Victorian days: how the "Madam
Vavasour" of those days had pulled the feathers from the village-girls'
hats, and turned a family who had offended her, with all their
belongings, out into the village street. But when Diana rejoiced that
such days were done, the old woman gave a tolerant: "Noa--noa! They were
none so bad--were t' Vavasours. Only they war no good at heirin."
"Airing?" said Diana, mystified.
"Heirin," repeated Betty Dyson, emphatically. "Theer was old Squire
Henry--wi' noabody to follow 'im--an' Mr. Edward noa better--and now
thissun, wi nobbut lasses. Noa--they war noa good at heirin--moor's t'
pity." Then she looked slyly at her companion: "An' yo', miss? yo'll be
gettin' married one o' these days, I'll uphowd yer.
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