Sarahs School Friend | Page 8

room or anywhere else where that man
is;' and she gave a wave of her hand towards the dining-room.
[Illustration: He took his young niece's arm and followed his
sister-in-law into the drawing-room.]
Mr William Howroyd's bright, cheery face grew grave as he said kindly
but seriously, 'Nay, lass, you shouldn't speak so of your father.'
'I don't see what difference that makes. I can't help his being my father.
People ought to be allowed to choose. I would sooner have our
watchman for my father than him.'
'Nay, lass, you don't mean that, and I can't have you speak like that of
my brother,' said her uncle.
'He's only your step-brother, and you don't get on with him any too well
yourself. But don't look so solemn. I'll be quite good and proper if
you'll let that twinkle come into your eye again; it isn't you without a
twinkle.'
Her uncle laughed good-humouredly as he took his young niece's arm
and followed his sister-in-law into the drawing-room. His keen eye
flashed round the room, seeming to take in every detail in that one look,
just as in his own mill Mr William Howroyd knew every 'hand' and
everything they did or did not do, as some of them declared. 'Why,
what's been doing here? Here's some fine painting!' he exclaimed, as he

went up to a panel in the wall where a landscape was painted, evidently
by a master-hand.
'Yes, a Royal Academician came down from London to do that; one
thousand pounds it cost. Mark was goin' to 'ave 'im do the lot; but 'e
wouldn't do any more after the first, so another man's got to come.'
'Ah, how's that?' inquired Mr Howroyd. 'It's well done; you won't better
this. Why, I see it's by Brown--Sir John Brown. It's worth one thousand
pounds, is that.'
'Sir John? 'E wasn't no Sir; just plain Mr Brown 'e was, though 'e gave
'isself airs enough for a Sir, an' wanted to dine with us--a common
painter chap!' said Mrs Clay.
George Clay looked annoyed, and coloured at his uncle's amused laugh;
his love and loyalty to his mother were much tried when she made a
speech of this kind, which, to do her justice, was not often, and
generally was, as in this case, an echo of her husband's opinions. 'My
dear mother, I had no idea that it was Brown you had here. Why, he's a
gentleman we might be proud to see at our table. I wish I had been at
home,' he said hastily.
'W'at did 'e call 'isself Mr Brown for, then? If we'd known 'e was a Sir
John it would 'ave made all the difference,' objected Mrs Clay.
'It ought not to have made any difference. A man's a man, and with a
talent like that even father might have known better than to treat him
like a servant,' cried Sarah hotly.
'Well, it doesn't matter; it's over and past now. And he wasn't Sir John
then; he's only just been made so, and I dare say he's forgotten all about
Ousebank and his treatment here; and for my part I'd sooner have a
picture on canvas that you can take away than a painted panel. It's a lot
of money to give for that; though, to be sure, he can afford that, can
Mark,' said Mr Howroyd.
'Uncle Howroyd, why do you waste time at the end of your sentences

like that, when you are always saying you have no time to waste,
because it is so precious?'
'What are you after now, lass?' said her uncle, bending his keen and
kindly eyes upon his young niece. 'I expect it's your uncle's rough
north-country tongue that's the matter. Come, out with it. What have I
said wrong now?'
'Oh, I don't mind your north-country tongue, as you call it, only I don't
like the way you repeat yourself. You say, "That's a fine picture, is
that," or "She's a good girl, is Sarah;" and it would be quite enough and
shorter to say, "That is a fine picture," or "Sarah is a good girl."'
'Sarah! There's manners, correctin' your uncle; a chit o' sixteen that's
not left school yet!' protested Mrs Clay.
'Don't you be corrected, Uncle Howroyd. It's very musical the way
north-countrymen repeat themselves at the end of the sentence,' said
George gently.
Mr Howroyd paid no attention to the last two speakers, but, with an
amused twinkle in his eye, tried the two ways of expressing himself.
'You're right, lass; it's a waste of words, is that.'
There was a hearty laugh at this, in which both Mrs Clay and her
brother-in-law joined, as the latter said, with a shake of his head, 'I'm
afraid I'm too old to get out