"Nay, sure. Does he get ony wage?"

"Nawe," replied Skedlock; "he's drawn his wage wi' his teeth, so fur.
But he's larnin', yo' known--he's larnin'. Where's yo'r Jone? I want to
see him abeawt some plants."

"Well," said Nanny, "sit tho down a minute. Hasto no news? Thae'rt
seldom short of a crack o' some mak."

"Nay," said Skedlock, scratching his rusty pate, "aw don't know 'at
aw've aught fresh." But when he had looked thoughtfully into the fire
for a minute or so, his brown face lighted up with a smile, and drawing
a chair up, he said, "Howd, Nanny; han yo yerd what a do they had at th'
owd chapel, yesterday?"

"Nawe."

"Eh, dear!... Well, yo known, they'n had a deal o' bother about music
up at that chapel, this year or two back. Yo'n bin a singer yo'rsel,
Nanny, i' yo'r young days--never a better."

"Eh, Skedlock," said Nanny; "aw us't to think I could ha' done a bit,
forty year sin--an' I could, too--though I say it mysel. I remember
gooin' to a oratory once, at Bury. Deborah Travis wur theer, fro Shay.
Eh! when aw yerd her sing 'Let the bright seraphim,' aw gav in.
Isherwood wur theer; an' her at's Mrs Wood neaw; an' two or three fro
Yawshur road on. It wur th' grand'st sing 'at ever I wur at i' my
life.... Eh, I's never forget th' practice-neets 'at we use't to have at
owd Israel Grindrod's! Johnny Brello wur one on 'em. He's bin deead a