“Aw’m first rate, mother,” sed Emma, “Aw’m rare an’ glad to see yo’, but what’s browt yo’ here this mornin’?”

“Aw know tha artn’t furst rate, an’ it’s noa use thee tellin’ me ’at tha art, for aw’ve com’d here to know th’ truth, an’ aw’m detarmined tha shall tell me, for aw’ve hardly been able to sleep a wink sin aw wor here last neet, an’ aw’ve been tawkin’ to thi father this mornin’, but one mud just as well whistle jigs to a mile-stoop an’ expect it to dance as tawk to him an’ expect to get ony sense aght on him, but aw want to know what bother tha’s been havin’ wi’ that felly o’ thine an’ what he’d been dooin’ to thi ’at made thee soa sorrowful last neet?  Nah, dooan’t goa raand th’ corners, but come straight to th’ point.  Aw’ve nooan been wed all theas years but what aw know what poor wives have to put up wi’.  Has he been drinkin’?”

“Nay, mother, yo’ munnot tawk like that, for aw’m sewer ther’ wor nivver a better man tied to a woman nor my Bob, an’ yo’ know he’s a teetotaller, soa ther’s noa fear on him gooin’ on th’ spree.”

“Aw’m nooan soa sewer abaat that, an’ if he doesn’t drink he varry likely does war.  Mun, aw know what men are, an’ tha has it to leearn yet.  Tha’n screen him all tha can, aw know that, just same as aw have to do thi father, but tha connot deceive me, aw’ve lived to’ long to be easily chaited.”

“Aw dooan’t want to chait yo’, mother, an’ aw’ve nought to screen Bob for, for aw dooan’t know ‘at he’s a fault, unless it is his thinkin’ soa mich o’ me.”

“A’a, poor fooilish ‘child!  He thinks nooan too mich o’ thee, net he marry!  He doesn’t think hauf enuff, or else he’d nooan goa on as he does!  Aw tak’ noa noatice o’ ther coaxin’ an’ fondlin’; it’s all mak’-believe, an’ as long as they can manage to get all they want for a soft word or two they’ll give yo’ plenty on ’em, but aw know’ em, an’ they can’t come ovver me.  Ther’ isn’t a pin to choose amang th’ best on ‘em, for they’re all as full o’ decait as an egg’s full o’ mait.  But aw want to know what wor th’ reason tha wor lukkin’ soa cut-up and daan-trodden last neet?”

“Why, mother, you’re altogether wrang this time.  Aw wor raythur low spirited last neet, but it’s nowt yo’ can blame him for, for aw’m sewer he works hard ivvery day, an’ if he doesn’t haddle as mich as he did it’s noa fault o’ his.  An’ this last two or three wicks his wage has been less bi five shillin’ nor it used to be, an’ at th’ price o’ mait an’ stuff nah, it’s hard wark to mak’ ends meet, an’ what aw wor trubbled abaat last neet wor becoss aw’d nowt to set him for his supper except a basin o’ porrige, an’ that isn’t mich for a chap ’at’s been tewin’ all th’ day, tho’ he nivver says a wrang word what ther’ is.”