‘Mony’s th’ carouse yo’ve helped!’ she murmured, in fond apostrophe. ‘Mony’s the Bimble as hes gone to bed wi’ een small as grey peas after suppin’ fro’ thee. But thaa mun go to save Aitchilees’ bäirns. I’m fain to part wi’ thee, but no paar upon earth ’ld mek’ me touch th’ money as I saved as es i’ th’ bank.’

The dragons’ eyes winked seducingly, tempting her to a last posset.

‘We’ll part i’ mirth. Good owd frien’s hev we bin, an’ to-morrow I mun tek thee daan to Squire Bagshawe’s, an’ mind him as he offered ten good pun’ for thee when he set him daan for a drink last Twelfth. I little thowt that I’ld ever find i’ my heart to part wi’ thee, but thaa mun know I were fond o’ Aitchilees, tho’ I did gi’e him th’ mitten. I were sure as he were after th’ land, an’ I’d heerd as he ’d walked more nor once wi’ th’ wench he wed for th’ first wife.…He might hev her for me: hoo were fow as neet!’

She put the jug on the oven-top to heat, and went again to the pantry, to draw another pint of ale.

‘Feyther said as thaa wert to pass to my eldest lad,’ she said, as she returned; ‘an’ as I hevna ony childer, an’ surely ne’er will have ony naa, et ’s as well thaa’rt goin’. Cousin Richard Henry’s my heir, an’ I wouldna hev his slut o’ a wife chippin’ bits aat o’ thee, an’ belike gi’en thee to th’ childer for a plaything. Nay, thaa’dst best go an’ set up Aitchilees’ young uns for life.’

The door of the cabinet still hung open, showing a row of stone-ware pint bottles.

‘Et shall be a posset—a Kirsmas posset i’ harvest time. Little else but posset hes been drunk aat o’ thee i’ my livin’ mem’ry. An’ et mun be th’ strongest posset as thaa’st held i’ thy belly for mony a long year. Gin i’ et, an’ rum, an’ whiskey, an’ nutmegs, an’ cloves, an’ ginger. I wunna hev no milk—a gill o’ cream wi’ lump sugar ’s th’ best. An’ a raand o’ toast to soften et.’

She took a little brass saucepan from the rack and poured in the ale and set it over the clear heart of the fire. One by one she dropped in the spices, and when the contents had begun to simmer, she moved the pan to the hob and cut a slice of bread. This she toasted until it was of uniform straw-colour; then she broke it into the posset jug and soaked it with cream. The ale sent a pungent aroma through the room.

‘Et ’s abaat ready,’ she said, sniffing. ‘Naa I mun pour et in. By th’ godlings, et smells gran’! I’ll do thee honour, owd jug; et ’s the last posset as e’er I’ll sup fro’ thee, an’ I’ll mek et rëal powerful.’

She filled a tea-cup with neat rum and added it to the rest, stirring carefully meanwhile. When she believed it to be thoroughly mixed, she used the same quantities of whisky and gin. The fragrance actually brought tears to her eyes.

‘I amna sure as I hevna put too much sperrit to et, but I do consider et ’s a success. Here’s to thy good health i’ th’ fine place thaa’rt goin’ to. Thaa’lt stan’ i’ a press full o’ Crown Derby—better comp’ny thaa’st ne’er known!’

She drank and smacked her lips. ‘I’ve fun’ aat haa to mek posset naa, I do b’lieve,’ she exclaimed, gleefully. ‘I ne’er supped such i’ my life afore.’

Then she drew the table nearer the settle and snuggled in the warmest corner. ‘I’ll think abaat Aitchilees as I drink. Happen he’ll know as he ’s i’ my mind, an’ as I’m tendin’ to do well for them as he ’s left behind. Like as not my help’ll set the childer all on theer feet. They may coom to be well-to-do fowk, an’ all aat o’ my posset jug!’

The blood, chilled for so many years, grew warm and vigorous as she sipped and sipped. The coarse brush of her fancy painted bright pictures of the past—vignettes akin to those one sees on the porcelain faces of old Derbyshire ‘long-sleeved clocks’. She saw herself leaning on his arm as they strolled through meadows aglow with daffy-down-dillies and primroses; she saw him waiting for her at the ‘leppings’ of