'Enoch, owd lad! dun yo' see th' parson?'

Ah, heedless Enoch! What was parson, what was wife to him? Was he
not soaring far above theologies and domesticities, over
continents traversed only by memory, amid ideals seen only with
the eye of hope? But a woman's voice!--what is there it cannot
shatter and dispel?

'Enoch! Enoch! dun yo' yer? Doesto see th' parson?'

'No, lass, I doan't,' said he, taking the flute from his lips.

'I welly think he's forgetten us this time, Enoch.'

'Nod he, lass; he's too fond o' thi butter-cakes and moufins
(muffins) to forgeet. He's some fond o' thi bakin', I con tell
thaa. Didn't he say as when he geet wed he'd bring his missis to
thee to larn haa to mak' bread?'

'Yi, he did, for sure!'

'And so he will,' said Mr. Penrose, stepping from behind the
garden bush. 'You see your husband is right, Mrs. Ashworth. I've
not forgotten it is baking-day, or that I was due at your house to
tea.'

'Theyer, Enoch, thaa sees what thi tootling on th' owd flute's
done for thee,' said the old woman, in her surprise and chagrin.
'Thaa cornd be too careful haa thaa talks. Thaa sees trees hes