Col. G. Yes.
Th. Ov a pratty yung lass?
Col. G. Well, no. I have but a son.
Th. Then thae winnot help mo?
Col. G. I shall be very glad to help you, if you will tell me how.
Th. Tell yor maister 'at Mattie's owd feyther's coom a' the gait fro Rachda to fot her whoam, and aw'll be much obleeged to him iv he'll let her goo beout lunger delay, for her mother wants her to whoam: hoo's but poorly. Tell yor maister that.
Col. G. But I don't believe my master knows anything about her.
Th. Aw're tellin' tho, aw seigh' th' mon goo into this heawse but a feow minutes agoo?
Col. G. You've mistaken somebody for him.
Th. Well, aw'm beawn to tell tho moore. Twothre days ago, aw seigh mo chylt coom eawt ov this same dur—aw mane th' heawsedur, yon.