to neet.’  ’Nay, lass, aw dooant think aw should spree abaat any moor nor aw do nah.  But who does ta think aw met to neet?’ he said.  ’Ah know nowt abaat it, nor care nawther.’  ‘Why, but as aw war comin’ up bith’ Brayvet Gate, aw met Betty Earnshaw, an’ soa aw went gaiterds wi her a bit, an’ that’s reason aw’m soa lat.’  ’Oh! tha mud weel be lat!  Shoo war an’ owd sweetheart o’ thine, wor Betty.’  ’Eea, shoo war axin me ha tha wor gettin’ on, shoo seems vany sooary for thi.’  ’Sooary be hanged! aw want nooan ov her sooarys!  If shoo could nobbut get me aat o’ th’ gate, shoo’d be all reight.  Did shoo ax when tha thowt tha’d be at liberty?’ ’Nay shoo did’nt, but shoo did say at shoo thowt tha lasted long, but shoo pitied thee an’ me.’  ’Pitied thee, did shoo!  An’ what did shoo pity thi for, aw should like to know?  Shoo happen thowt shoo could do better for thee nor what aw’ve done, but if shoo wor as badly as me shood know summat.  ’Eea, but shoo isn’t, for aw nivver saw her luk better i’ mi life, an’ shoo talks abaat commin’ i’th’ morn in’ to clean up for thi a bit; aw sed tha’d be fain to see her, an’ tha sees if owt should happen thee, shadd be getten into th’ way a bit, an’ begin to feel moor used to th’ haase.’  ’Niver! wol my heart’s warm, Tom.  Aw’ll niver have sich a huzzy i’th’ haase, wheal’ aw am! aw’m nooan done wi yet! aw’ll live a bit longer to plague yo wi’, an’ as for cleanin’, aw’ll crawl abaat o’ mi hands an’ knees afoor shoo shall do owt for me!  Yo think aw’m poorly an’ soa aw’m to be trodden on, but aw’ll let yo see awm worth a dozen deead uns yet; nasty owd ponse as shoo is!” An’ as sure as yor thear, Doctor, shoo gate up th’ next morn in’ an’ kinneld th’ fair, an’ when Tom coom hoam to his braikfast all wor ready, an’ shoo wor set daan at th’ table wi a clean cap on, an’ lukkin as smart as smart could be.  When th’ chap saw this, he said, “Lass, aw think aw’d better send Betty backward,” “Eea, aw think tha had,” shoo sed, “an’ th’a can send her word throo me ’at aw may live to donee on her gravestooan yet.”  Tom bafs in his sleeve a bit sometimes, an’ if iver one ov her owd fits seems likely ta come on, he’s nowt to do but say a word or two abaat Betty, an’ shoo’s reight in a minnit.  That licks buttermilk, Doctor.

It’s a comfort.

It’s a comfort a chap can do withaat what he connot get.  It feels hard to have to do wi’ less nor what a body has at present, but if it has to be it will be, an’ it’s cappin’ ha’ fowk manage to pool throo haiver bad th’ job is.  It’s naa use for a chap to keep longin’ for sum mat better, unless he’s willin’ to buckle to, an’ work for it; an’ a chap wi’ an independent mind ne’er freeats becoss he hasn’t all he wants; he sets hissen to get it, an’ if he’s detarmined he oft succeeds, an’ if net he doesn’t sit daan an’ mump, but up an’ at it agean.  Havin’ a lot o’ brass doesn’t mak a chap happy, but spend in’ it may do, an’ if a chap’s wise he’ll try to spend it in a way ’at’ll bring happiness for a