“If not on hers, wheer should ’e see it?” asked Mr. Blee eagerly.“ I’ve seed it, tu, an’ for that matter theer’s sour looks an’ sighs elsewheer. People ban’t blind, worse luck. ’Tis grawed to be common talk, an’ I’ve fired myself to tell you, ’cause ’tis fitting an’ right, an’ it might come more grievous from less careful lips.”
“Go on then; an’ doan’t rack me longer’n you can help. Use few words.”
“Many words must go to it, I reckon. ’Tis well knawn I unfolds a bit o’ news like the flower of the field—gradual and sure. You might have noticed that love-cheel by the name of Timothy ’bout the plaace? Him as be just of age to harry the ducks an’ such-like.”
“A nice li’l bwoy, tu, an’ fond of me; an’ you caan’t say he’m a love-cheel, knawin’ nothin’ ’bout him.”
“Love-cheel or changeling, ’tis all wan. Have’e ever thought ’twas coorious the way Blanchard comed by un?”
“Certainly ’twas—terrible coorious.”
“You never doubted it?”
“Why for should I? Will’s truthful as light, whatever else he may be.”
“You believe as he went ’pon the Moor an’ found that bwoy in a roundy-poundy under the gloamin’?”
“Ess, I do.”