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“Aw mun think this ower, Matt. Aw connot say aw furgive yo’r Sal o’ at a dash. Hoo’s done that as may niver be undone whoile thee an’ me’s alive; an’ aw connot frame to say as aw furgive her loike o’ on a sudden. An’ aw mun think it ower before eawt be said to eawr Bess, poor wench!”

A week elapsed before the subject was broached again. Then Simon spoke to Matthew as they were leaving the tannery-yard.

“Coom into th’ ‘Queen Anne’” (he called it quëan), “Matt, and have a gill; aw’ve summat t’ say to thee.”

There was nobody in the taproom. They sat down to their half-pint horns of ale—times were too hard to afford deeper draughts—and Simon said:

“Aw’ve bin thinkin’ o’ this week, an’ as aw connot forgive yo’r Sal, gradely loike, aw’ll no put th’ same temptation i’ th’ way of eawr Bess. Hoo’d better think Tum’s takken oop wi’ some other wench, than ha’ th’ shame o’ knowin’ th’ lad’s toorned her up i’ disgrace. Hoo’s getten ower th’ worst o’ her trouble, an’ awm not gooin to break her heart outreet, and mebbe set her agen little Jabez into th’ bargain.”