“Mrs. Bamforth,” presently he said, “how do you feel?”
“Aw’m well enough i’ body, doctor, but nowt to boast of i’ mind.”
“I don’t think you are very well, Mrs. Bamforth. I detect in you symptoms, my dear lady, that give me grave alarm.”
“Why, good gracious, doctor, whatever do yo’ mean? Why my appetite’s good . . . .”
“That aggravates the complaint.”
“Aw sleep well, leastwise aw did till a neet or two sin, when aw started dreamin’ o’ washing clothes, an’ aw knew it were a sign o’ a burial i’ th’ family. ‘William Bamforth,’ aw said to th’ mester, ‘William Bamforth, as sure as yo’re a living man there’ll be a death i’ th’ family afore yo’r a month older, but little did aw think o’ yar Ben bein’ laid low. Aw put it down to my sister Matty. He did nowt but laugh, but he’ll happen believe me now. It’s a judgment on him for scoffing.’”
“Mrs. Bamforth, you must take to your bed at once; and you must not stir out of it till I give you leave. You must send Martha to the surgery at once and I’ll make up a bottle, and three times a day you must take it.”
“But I ail nowt, doctor.”
“You may pour it down the sink.”
Was the doctor off his head? But no, he went on: