“Why, it’s Delia!” sez the widdy.
“Can I spake to you a minnit, mam!” ses I.
“Why certinly Delia. Whot is it,” ses she.
I wint to throw me aprun over me hed but fownd I’d left it at home, so I set up a paneful cry widout it. “Oh wirrah! wirrah!” ses I, “it wuz an avil day whin I crossed the oshun. Oh mam” sez I, “it’s a cruel warld and peeple do be hard on a poor hardwarking crachure wid niver a frind in the world.”
The widdy looked as if she were aboot to larf, but she’s that sorry fer me she controlled hersilf. She poot her hand on me shoulder and ses she kindly:
“Cum! What is it, Delia? my deer?”
“Mrs. Wolley do be arfter firing me, Mrs. Bangs,” ses I, “and all because I’m odyiss in the site of Miss Claire and all because I hilped her meet Mr. Harry Doodly—the crool faithless good-for-nothing villyun” ses I.
“You poor crachure,” ses she, “and you want me to spake fur you. Why, of coorse I will. I’ll go rite over and appeel to Claire’s sinse of justiss.”
Whin I was gitting ondrissed to-nite I herd me dure opening, and I guv a lowd yill, fer I’m in me chimmy aloan. As Miss Clair cum in, I rooshed into me closet, and I spoak to the child frum behind the harf closed dure.
“What is it darlint?” ses I “Its ashamed I am fur you to see me in dishabeel and me wid twinty bunyuns on me feet and moles on me ligs and arms. What is it swatehart?”