white clouds were casting great shadows down, and the breeze blowing from the east so rippled the surface that it had the appearance of some mighty river rolling on towards the land of the setting sun.
'But w'ich I were a-sayin' of, Miss Lotty, w'en you spoke like Shakespeare, I'm a bit o' a pote myself.'
'Indeed, boy!'
'I isn't so much o' a boy as I looks, Lotty. Lor' bless your innercent soul! I be sixteen an' carried for'ard again. Yes, I be a bit o' a pote, and 'as my dreams, just as the Immortal Willum had his'n.'
'And what may your dreams be, Chops?'
'Oh, I dreams, Miss Lotty, wot I du's'n't 'ardly tell you.'
'I've known you for long, long ages, Chops, so you needn't mind what you tell me.'
'Yes, Lotty, for long, long ages. Lor'! don't I remember, w'en you was a wee kinchin, a-carryin' o' you on my back, an' sometimes a-buryin' o' you, kickin' legs an' all, among the 'ay or among the 'eather.'