"Fäather, it wur an accident."
"A purty accident—wud them stacks no more dry than a ditch. 'Twas a clear case of 'bustion—fireman said so to me; as wicked and tedious a bit o' wark as ever I met in my life."
"It'll never happen agäun."
"No—it wöan't."
"Oh, fäather—döan't be so hard on us. The Lord knows wot'll become of us if you turn us out now. It 'ud have been better if we'd gone five years ago—Realf wur a more valiant man then nor wot he is now. He'll never be able to start agäun—he äun't fit fur it."
"Then he äun't fit to work on my land. I äun't a charity house. I can't afford to kip a man wud no backbone and no wits. I've bin too kind as it is—I shud have got shut of him afore he burnt my pläace to cinders."
"But wot's to become of us?"
"That's no consarn of mine—äun't you säaved anything?"
"How cud we, fäather?"
"I could have säaved two pound a month on Realf's wage."