‘All but that eighteen month thaa were away i' Yorksur, when th' cotton panic were on, thaa knows, lad.’
‘Yi, lass, aw know. Naa let me ged on wi' mi tale. Well, as aw were sayin', Mr. Penrose, I come in these parts as cut-looker at th' Brig Factory, and th' fust lass as brought her piece to me were Betty yonder.’
‘Thaa'rt wrang agen, Malachi. Th' fust lass as brought her piece to thee were Julia Smith. Aw remember as haa hoo went in afore me, as though it were nobbud yester morn.’
‘Well, never mind, thaa wur t' fust I seed, an' that's near enugh, isn't it, Mr. Penrose?’
The minister nodded, and smiled at old Betty, who so jealously followed the story of her husband's early life.
‘Well, when hoo put her piece daan afore me, I couldn't tak' mi een off her. Aw were fair gloppent (taken by surprise), an' aw did naught but ston' an' stare at her.
‘“What arto starin' at?” hoo said, flushin' up to her yure (hair).
‘“At yo',” I said, as gawmless as a nicked goose.
‘“Then thaa'd better use thi een for what th'art paid for, an' look at them pieces i'stead o' lookin' at lasses' faces.”