‘Nowe, lad—thaa'rt—mista'en—Whittam's hens hesn't bin i' th' garden sin' thaa towd him abaat 'em last.’
‘Then mi mother's bin botherin' thee agen,’ said Matt, in a sharp tone, as though he had at last hit upon the secret of his wife's sorrow.
‘Wrang once more,’ replied Miriam, with a light in her eye; and then, looking up at her husband with a gleam, she said: ‘I durnd think as thi mother'll bother me mich more, lad.’
‘Surely th' old lass isn't deead!’ he cried in startled tones. And then, recollecting her treatment of Miriam, he continued: ‘But I needn't be afeard o' that, for thaa'll never cry when th' old girl geets to heaven. Will yo', mi bonnie un?’
‘Shame on thee, Matt,’ said Miriam, smiling through her tears.
‘Bless thee for that smile, lass. Thaa looks more thisel naa. There's naught like sunleet when it's in a woman's face.’
‘Thaa means eyeleet,’ Miriam replied, with a gleam of returning mirth.
‘Ony kind o' leet, so long as it's love-leet and joy-leet, and i' thi face, an o'. But thaa's noan towd me what made thee so feeard (timid) when aw met thee.’
By this time Matt and his wife were on the threshold of their cottage, and the woman's heart beat loudly as she felt the moment of her great confession was at hand.