SAM (admiringly).  She were that.  Rare talker she were.  She’d lie theer in ‘er bed all day as it might be in yon corner, an’ call me all th’ names she could put her tongue to, till A couldn’t tell ma reeght ’and from ma left. (Still reminiscent.) Wonnerful sperrit, she ‘ad, considerin’ she were bed-ridden so long.  She were only a little un an’ cripple an’ all, but by gum, she could sling it at a feller if ’er tea weren’t brewed to ’er taste.  Talk!  She’d talk a donkey’s yead off, she would.

SARAH (on her mettle).  An’ A’ll talk thy silly yead off an’ all if tha doan’t get sharp to tellin’ me what tha wants after in my ’ouse, tha great mazed idiot.

SAM.  Eh, but she were a rare un.

SARAH.  The lad’s daft aboot his moother.

SAM (detachedly, looking at window; pause).  Wunnerful breeght the sky is, to-day.

SARAH.  Tha great ‘ulkin’ fool.  A’d tak’ a broomstick to thee if—­if A’d the use o’ my ’ands.

SAM.  Now, if that isn’t just what ma moother used to say.

SARAH.  Dang thy moother.  An’ A doan’t mean no disrepect to ’er neither.  She’s bin in ‘er grave this year an’ more, poor woman.

SAM.  A canna ‘elp thinkin’ to ’er all same.  Eh, but she were wunnerful.

SARAH.  An’ A’d be wunnerful too.  A’d talk to thee.  A’d call thee if A were thy moother an’ A’d to live aside o’ thee neeght an’ day.

SAM (eagerly).  Eh, by gum, but A wish tha would.

SARAH.  Would what?

SAM.  Would coom an’ live along wi’ me.

SARAH.  Tha great fool, what does mean?  Art askin’ me to wed thee?

SAM.  A didn’t mean to offend thee, Mrs. Ormerod.  A’m sorry A spoke.  A allays do wrong thing.  But A did so ’ope as tha might coom.  Tha sees A got used to moother.  A got used to ‘earin’ ’er cuss me.  A got used to doin’ for ‘er an’ A’ve nought to do in th’ evenings now.  It’s terrible lonesome in th’ neeghttime.  An’ when notion coom to me, A thowt as A’d mention un to thee casual.

SARAH.  Dost mean it, Sam Horrocks?  Dost tha know what tha’s sayin’, or is tha foolin’ me?

SAM.  O’ course A mean it.  Tha sees A’m not a marryin’ sort.  Th’ lasses won’t look at me.  A’m silly Sam to them, A knaws it.  A’ve a slate loose; A shan’t never get wed.  A thowt A’d mebbe a chance wi’ yon lass as were ‘ere wi’ thee, but hoo towld me A were too late.  A allays were slow.  A left askin’ too long an’ A ’ve missed ’er.  A gets good money, Mrs. Ormerod, but A canna talk to a young wench.  They mak’s me go ‘ot and cowld all over.  An’ when curate towld me as tha was to go to workus, A thowt A’d a chance wi’ thee.  A knaw’d it weren’t a big chance, because my plaice ain’t much cop after what tha’s bin used to ’ere.  A’ve got no fine fixin’s nor big chairs an’ things like as tha used to ’ave.  Eh, but A would ’ave loved to do for thee as A used to do for ma moother, an’ when A yeerd thee talkin’ now an’ callin’ me a fool an’ th’ rest, by gum, A just yearned to ’ave thee for allays.  Tha’d fill ‘er plaice wunnerful well.  A’d just a’ loved to adopt thee.