“Or do ’ee think ’tis ‘My dear Dick’?” suggested George, anxiously, and with a sort of triumph in his tone, as if that were quite what he expected.
“No, no. ’Tis an O, Gearge, that second letter. Besides, twould be My dear Gearge to thee, thou knows.”
Again the look with which the miller’s man favored Abel was far from pleasant. But he controlled his voice to its ordinary drawl (always a little slower and more simple sounding, when he specially meant mischief).
“So ’twould, Abel. So ’twould. What a vool I be, to be sure! But give it to I now. We’ll look at it another time, Abel.”
“I be very sorry, Gearge,” said Abel, who had a consciousness that the miller’s man was ill-pleased in spite of his civility. “It be so long since I was at school, and it be such a queer word. Do ’ee think she can have spelt un wrong, Gearge?”
“’Tis likely she have,” said George, regaining his composure.
“Abel! Abel! Abel!” cried the mother from the dwelling-room. “Come to bed, child!”
“Good-night, Gearge. I’m main sorry to be so stupid, Gearge,” said Abel, and off he ran.
Mrs. Lake was walking up and down, rocking the little Jan in her arms, who was wailing fretfully.
“I be puzzled to know what ails un,” said Mrs. Lake, in answer to Abel’s questions. “He be quite in a way to-night. But get thee to bed, Abel.”