‘Now, theere you go!’ wrenching himself round, for fear Sylvia should carry her meekly made threat into execution.  ‘Ugh! ugh!’ as his limb hurt him.  ‘Come in, Harry, come in, and talk a bit o’ sense to me, for a’ve been shut up wi’ women these four days, and a’m a’most a nateral by this time.  A’se bound for ‘t, they’ll find yo’ some wark, if ‘t’s nought but for to save their own fingers.’

So Harry took off his coat, and seated himself professional-wise on the hastily-cleared dresser, so that he might have all the light afforded by the long, low casement window.  Then he blew in his thimble, sucked his finger, so that they might adhere tightly together, and looked about for a subject for opening conversation, while Sylvia and her mother might be heard opening and shutting drawers and box-lids before they could find the articles that needed repair, or that were required to mend each other.

‘Women’s well enough i’ their way,’ said Daniel, in a philosophizing tone, ’but a man may have too much on ’em.  Now there’s me, leg-fast these four days, and a’ll make free to say to yo’, a’d rather a deal ha’ been loading dung i’ t’ wettest weather; an’ a reckon it’s th’ being wi’ nought but women as tires me so:  they talk so foolish it gets int’ t’ bones like.  Now thou know’st thou’rt not called much of a man oather, but bless yo’, t’ ninth part’s summut to be thankful for, after nought but women.  An’ yet, yo’ seen, they were for sending yo’ away i’ their foolishness!  Well! missus, and who’s to pay for t’ fettling of all them clothes?’ as Bell came down with her arms full.  She was going to answer her husband meekly and literally according to her wont, but Sylvia, already detecting the increased cheerfulness of his tone, called out from behind her mother—­

’I am, feyther.  I’m going for to sell my new cloak as I bought Thursday, for the mending on your old coats and waistcoats.’

‘Hearken till her,’ said Daniel, chuckling.  ’She’s a true wench.  Three days sin’ noane so full as she o’ t’ new cloak that now she’s fain t’ sell.’

‘Ay, Harry.  If feyther won’t pay yo’ for making all these old clothes as good as new, I’ll sell my new red cloak sooner than yo’ shall go unpaid.’

‘A reckon it’s a bargain,’ said Harry, casting sharp, professional eyes on the heap before him, and singling out the best article as to texture for examination and comment.

‘They’re all again these metal buttons,’ said he.  ’Silk weavers has been petitioning Ministers t’ make a law to favour silk buttons; and I did hear tell as there were informers goin’ about spyin’ after metal buttons, and as how they could haul yo’ before a justice for wearing on ’em.’