He wor skeert wi his own thinkins, an th' cowd gripped him i' th' in'ards, an twisted him as yo may twist a withe of hay--Aye! it wor a _cruel_ neet.

When I opened t' door i' t' early mornin, t' garden wor aw black--th' ice on t' reservoir wor inches thick.

Mony a year afterwards t' foak round here ud talk o' that for an April frost.

An my poor 'Lias--lost on that fearfu Scout--sleepin out wi'out a rag to cover him, an skeert soomhow--t'Lord or t'Devil knows how! And then foak ud have me mak a good tale out o' it--soomthin to gie 'em a ticklin down their backbane--soomthin to pass an evenin--_Lord!'_ The wife's voice paused abruptly on this word of imprecation, or appeal, as though her own passion choked her.

David stood beside her awkwardly, his eyes fixed on the gravel, wherewith one foot was playing.