‘Well, Deborah, th' chilt's dying, I yer. I towd thee he would. Th' Almeety goes hawves wi' no one. He'll hev all or noan.’
‘What! doesto mak' aat He's as selfish as thisel, Amos? Nay, I mun hev a better God nor thee.’
‘Well, a' tell thee, He's baan to tak' th' lad, so thaa mut as weel bow to His will. Them as He doesn't bend He breaks.’
‘Then He'll hev to break me, Amos; for aw shall never bend, aw con tell thee.’ And the old woman stiffened herself, as though in defiance of the Providence which Amos preached.
‘Why, Deborah, thaa'rt wur nor a potsherd. Thaa knows thi Bible: “Let the potsherds strive wi' th' potsherds; but woe to th' mon that strives wi' his Maker.”’
‘Well, I'm baan to wrostle wi' Him, an' if He flings me aw shannot ax yo' to pick me up, noather.’
‘Thaa mun say, “Thy will be done,” Deborah.’
‘Nowe! never to th' deeath o' yon chilt.’
‘Doesto say thaa willn't?’
‘Yi, Amos, aw do!’