"Nay, lass, you're as thrang as an auld peat wife, I's warn. I'll mak' it myself. I's rather partic'lar about my poddish, forby. Dusta know how many faults poddish may have? They may be sour, sooty, sodden, and savorless, soat, welsh, brocken, and lumpy—and that's mair nor enough, thoo knows."
Gubblum had gone down on the hearth-rug.
"Why, and here's the son and heir," he said. "Nay, laddie, mind my claes—they'll dirty thy brand-new brat for thee."
"Is he growing, Gubblum?"
"Growing?—amain."
"And his eyes—are they changing color?—going brown?"
"Maybe—I'll not be for saying nay."
"Is he—is he very like me?"
"Nay—weel—nay—I's fancying I see summat of the stranger in the laal chap at whiles."
The young mother turned her head. Gubblum twisted to where Matthew sat.