'That's bothered her a deal latly,' broke in the mother, with a
choking voice. 'Hoo sez hoo noan cares for heaven if hoo cornd
play on th' moors, and yer th' wind, and poo yethbobs when hoo
gets there. What dun yo' think abaat it, Mr. Penrose?'

Mr. Penrose was not long from college, and the metaphysics and
dogmatics of the schools were more to his mind than the poetry and
religion of this moorland child. If asked to discourse on
personality, or expound the latest phase of German thought, he
would have felt himself at home. Here, however, he who was the
idol of the class-room sat silenced and foolish before a peasant
girl. True, he could enter into an argument for a future state,
and show how spiritual laws opposed the mundane imagination of the
child. But, after all, wherein was the use?--perhaps the child was
nearer the truth than he was himself. He would leave her to her
own pristine fancies.

In a moment Milly continued:

'Th' Bible says, Mr. Penrose, that i' heaven there's a street
paved wi' gowd (gold). Naa; I'd raither hev a meadow wi' posies,
or th' moors when they're covered wi' yethbobs. If heaven's baan
to be all streets, I'd as soon stop o' this side--though they be
paved wi' gowd an' o'.'

'Listen yo', how hoo talks, Mr. Penrose. Hoo's awlus talked i'
that feshion sin' hoo were a little un. Aar owd minister used to
co her "God's child."'

Mr. Penrose was a young man, and thought that 'Nature's child'