‘Why, it's i' this way, lass; my Jimmy and yor little Job wur aar own, wurnd they?’
‘Yi, forsure they wur.’
‘We feshioned 'em, as the Psalmist sez, didn't we?’
‘Thaa sez truth, Gronny,’ wept the younger woman.
‘And we feshioned 'em lads an' o'.’
‘Yi, and fine uns; leastways, my little Job wur—bless him.’
And the mother turned her tearful eyes towards the settle whereon lay the corpse.
‘Well, cornd yo' see as God hes finished aar wark for us, and what we made lads, He's made angels on?’
‘But aw'd sooner ha' kept mine. Angels are up aboon, thaa knows; an' heaven's a long way off.’
‘Happen noan so far as thaa thinks, lass; and then th' Almeety will do better by 'em nor we con.’