"Sally."

"Sally? It's a good enough name. What's th' other one?"

"I haven't got no other one as I ever heerd on. My uncle's Jim
Whiteside, an' soom folks call'n me Sally Whiteside, an' then he gets
mad an' says 'tisn't none o' my name. An' soom folks call'n me 'Cockle
Sally.' Aye, that's what they call'n me mostly."

Dickinson looked at her disapprovingly. He had heard of the wild,
disreputable "Cockle Folk" who roamed about the sandhills; who were
worse than tramps in the opinion of respectable people, and who had,
many of them, no fixed abode of any kind.

"Well," he remarked, "it's a pity. I could ha' wished ye'd ha'
belonged to different folks. I don't hold with these cocklers. They're
a rough lot, ar'n't they?"

The girl laughed.

"My Aunt Nancy says I'm as rough as ony mysel'. Would ye like soom
cockles?" she asked, breaking off suddenly. "I'd fetch ye soom
to-morrow if I've ony luck. They're chep enough--an' big ones. Wheer
do ye live?"

"At Mr. Waring's farm," responded John, distantly; adding, more
truthfully than politely, "I doubt you'd best keep away though. My
aunt 'll be none too pleased if you come yonder."

"Aye, I knows her. Hoo buys mony a quart of me, an' then hoo chivies