“Well,” she said quietly, turning round, “what do you wish to say?”
“Why, please mann, I hopes as you don't think I be any ways unked 'bout this here quire singin', as they calls it—I'm sartin you knows as there ain't amost nothing I wouldn't do to please ee.”
“Well, you know how to do it very easily,” she said when he paused. “I don't ask you even to give up your music and try to work with us, though I think you might have done that. I only ask you to use some psalms and tunes which are fit to be used in a church.”
“To be sure us ool. 'Taint we as wants no new-fangled tunes; them as we sings be aal owld ones as ha' been used in our church ever since I can mind. But you only choose thaay as you likes out o' the book? and we be ready to kep to thaay.”
“I think Mr. Walker made a selection for you some weeks ago,” said Miss Winter; “did he not?”
“'Ees, but 'tis narra mossel o' use for we to try his 'goriums and sich like. I hopes you wun't be offended wi' me, miss, for I be telling nought but truth.” He spoke louder as they got nearer to the school door, and, as they were opening it, shouted his last shot after them, “'Tis na good to try thaay tunes o' his'n, miss. When us praises God, us likes to praise un joyful.”
“There, you hear that, Mary,” said Miss Winter. “You'll soon begin to see why I look grave. There never was such a hard parish to manage. Nobody will do what they ought. I never can get them to do anything. Perhaps we may manage to teach the children better, that's my only comfort.”
“But, Katie dear, what do the poor things sing? Psalms, I hope.”
“Oh yes, but they choose all the odd ones on purpose, I believe. Which class will you take?”
And so the young ladies settled to their teaching, and the children in her class all fell in love with Mary before church-time.