'Thaa's reet, Gronny, he willn't. But if He mak's us work here,
why does He kill us o'er th' job, as he's killed mi little lad?'

'Thaa mun ax Mr. Penrose that, lass; I'm no scholard.'

'Aw'll tell thee what it is, Gronny. It noan seems reet that thee
and me should be sittin' by th' fire, and little Job yonder cowd
i' th' shadow. Let's pool up th' settle to th' fire; he's one on
us, though he's deead.'

'Let him alone, lass; he's better off nor them as wants fire;
there's no cowd wheer he's goan.'

Rising from her chair, and turning the sheet once more from off
the boy's face, the mother said:

'Where hasto goan, lad? Tell thi mother, willn't taa?' And then,
looking round at the old woman, she said, 'Doesto think he yers
(hears) me, Gronny?'

'Aw welly think he does, lass; but durnd bother him naa. He's
happen restin', poor little lad; or happen he's telling them as is
up aboon all abaat thee--who knows?'

'Aw say, Gronny, Jesus made deead fo'k yer Him when He spok',
didn't He?'

'Yi, lass, He did forsure.'

'Who wur that lass He spok' to when He turned 'em all aat o' th'
room, wi' their noise and shaatin'?'

'Tha means th' rich mon's lass, doesndto?'

'Yi! Did He ever do ought for a poor mon's lass?'

'He did for a poor woman's lad, thaa knows--a widder's son--one
like thine.'

'But he's noan here naa, so we's be like to bide by it, ey, dear?
Mi lad! mi lad!'

'Don't tak' on like that, lass; noather on us 'll hev to bide
long. It's a long road, I know, when fo'k luk for'ards; but it's
soon getten o'er, and when thaa looks back'ards it's nobbud short.
I tell thee I've tramped it, and I durnd know as I'm a war woman
for the journey. It's hard wark partin' wi' your own; but then
theer's th' comfort o' havin' had 'em. I'd rayther hev a child and
bury it, nor be baat childer, like Miriam Heap yonder.'

'Aw dare say as yo're reet, Gronny; aw's cry and fret a deal over
little Job, but then aw's hev summat to think abaat, shornd I? Aw
geet his likeness taken last Rehoboth fair by a chap as come in a
callivan (caravan), and it hengs o'er th' chimley-piece. But aw's
noan see th' leet in his een ony more, nor yer his voice, nor tak'
him wi' me to th' chapel on Sundos,' and the woman again turned to
the dead boy, and fondly lingered over his familiar features,
weeping over them her tears of despair.

'Come, lass, tha munn't tak' on like that. Sit yo' daan, an' I'll
tell yo' what owd Mr. Morell said to me wh