She was silent.

“You don't want to make yourselves miserable,” said her father; “all about nowt.”

“He isn't miserable,” she said.

“I'll back my life, if you can do nowt else, you can make him as miserable as a dog.

You'd be a dab hand at that, my lass.”

“I do nothing to make him miserable,” she retorted.

“Oh no — oh no! A packet o' butterscotch, you are.”

She laughed a little.

“You mustn't think I want him to be miserable,” she cried. “I don't.”

“We quite readily believe it,”