‘Nay, noan so, Gronny. God cornd love Job better nor I loved him.’
‘But he willn't ged crushed in a coile seam i' heaven; naa, lass, will he?’
‘Thaa's reet, Gronny, he willn't. But if He mak's us work here, why does He kill us o'er th' job, as he's killed mi little lad?’
‘Thaa mun ax Mr. Penrose that, lass; I'm no scholard.’
‘Aw'll tell thee what it is, Gronny. It noan seems reet that thee and me should be sittin' by th' fire, and little Job yonder cowd i' th' shadow. Let's pool up th' settle to th' fire; he's one on us, though he's deead.’
‘Let him alone, lass; he's better off nor them as wants fire; there's no cowd wheer he's goan.’
Rising from her chair, and turning the sheet once more from off the boy's face, the mother said:
‘Where hasto goan, lad? Tell thi mother, willn't taa?’ And then, looking round at the old woman, she said, ‘Doesto think he yers (hears) me, Gronny?’
‘Aw welly think he does, lass; but durnd bother him naa. He's happen restin', poor little lad; or happen he's telling them as is up aboon all abaat thee—who knows?’
‘Aw say, Gronny, Jesus made deead fo'k yer Him when He spok', didn't He?’