It's the Lord's doing, and luck's the devil's way o' putting it.

Maybe it's to try Philip he's sent there; happen it may be a fiery furnace to him; for I've heerd tell it's full o' temptations, and he may fall into sin--and then where'd be the "luck" on it?
But why art ta going?
and the morning, say'st thou?
Why, thy best shirt is in t' suds, and no time for t' starch and iron it.

Whatten the great haste as should take thee to Lunnon wi'out thy ruffled shirt ?' 'It's none o' my doing,' said Philip; 'there's business to be done, and John Foster says I'm to do it; and I'm to start to-morrow.' 'I'll not turn thee out wi'out thy ruffled shirt, if I sit up a' neet,' said Alice, resolutely.
'Niver fret thyself, mother, about t' shirt,' said Philip.

'If I need a shirt, London's not what I take it for if I can't buy mysel' one ready-made.' 'Hearken to him!' said Alice.

'He speaks as if buying o' ready-made shirts were nought to him, and he wi' a good half-dozen as I made mysel'.