EMMA (by door).  Nought o’ th’ sort, Mrs. Ormerod.  Th’ mill’s just loosed and A thowt A’d step in as A were passin’ and see ’ow tha was feeling like.

SARAH (crossing to box).  Oh, nicely, nicely, thankee.  It’s only my ‘ands as is gone paralytic, tha knaws, an’ a weaver’s no manner o’ good to nobody without th’ use o’ ’er’ands.  A’m all reeght in masel’.  That’s worst of it.

EMMA.  Well, while A’m ’ere, Mrs. Ormerod, is theer nought as A can do for thee?

SARAH.  A dunno as theer is, thankee, Emma.

EMMA (taking her shawl off, looking round and hanging it on a peg in the door).  Well, A knaws better.  What wert doin’ when A coom in?  Packin’ yon box?

SARAH.  Aye.  Tha sees theer’s a two three things as A canna bear thowt o’ parting from.  A don’t reeghtly knaw if they’ll let me tak’ ’em into workus wi’ me, but A canna have ’em sold wi’ rest of stuff.

EMMA (crosses below SARAH to box, going on her knees).  Let me help yo’.

SARAH.  Tha’s a good lass, Emma.  A’d tak’ it kindly of thee.

EMMA.  They’d do wi’ packin’ a bit closer.  A dunno as they’d carry safe that road.

SARAH.  A know.  It’s my ’ands, tha sees, as mak’s it difficult for me.

(Sits on chair.)

EMMA.  Aye.  A’ll soon settle ’em a bit tighter.

(Lifts all out, buries her arms in the box, and rearranges its contents.)

SARAH.  But what’s ’appened to thy looms, lass?  They’ll not weave by ’emselves while thee’s ’ere, tha knows.

EMMA (looking round).  Eh, looms is all reeght.  Factory’s stopped.  It’s Saturday afternoon.

SARAH.  So ‘t is.  A’d clean forgot.  A do forget time o’ th’ week sittin’ ‘ere day arter day wi’ nought to do.

EMMA.  So that’s all reeght.  Tha’s no need to worry about me.  Tha’s got trouble enough of thy own.

(Resuming at the box)

SARAH.  Aye, th’ art reeght theer, lass.  Theer’s none on us likes to think o’ goin’ to workus when we’re ould.

EMMA.  ‘Appen it’ll be all reeght after all.  Parson’s coomin’ to see thee.

SARAH.  Aye, A knaw ’e is.  A dunno, but A’m in ’opes ’e’ll do summat for me.  Tha can’t never tell what them folks can do.

EMMA (kneeling up).  Tha keep thy pecker oop, Mrs. Ormerod.  That’s what my moother says to me when A tould ‘er A were coomin’ in to thee.  Keep ’er pecker oop, she says.  It’s not as if she’d been lazy or a wastrel, she says; Sal Ormerod’s bin a ’ard worker in ’er day, she says.  It’s not as if it were thy fault.  Tha can’t ’elp tha ‘ands goin’ paralytic.

(She continues rummaging in the trunk while speaking.)

SARAH.  Naw.  It’s not my fault.  God knaws A’m game enough for work, ould as A am.  A allays knawed as A’d ’ave to work for my living all th’ days o’ my life.  A never was a savin’ sort.