But, as to writing to Mr.Gurney and that sort of talk, she wasn't going to bandy words--not she; but nobody had ever meddled with Hannah Grieve's affairs yet and found they had done well for themselves.
'An I wouldna advise yo, Reuben Grieve, to begin now--no, I wouldna.

I gie yo fair noatice.

Soa theer's not enough for t' lad to do, Mr.Ancrum, he thinks?
Perhaps he'll tak th' place an try?
I'd not gie him as mich wage as ud fill his stomach i' th' week--noa, I'd not, not if yo wor to ask _me_--a bletherin windy chap as iver I saw.

I'd as soon hear a bird-clapper preach as him--theer'd be more sense an less noise! An they're findin it out down theer--we'st see th' back on him soon.' And to Reuben, looking across the little scullery at his wife, at the harsh face shaken with the rage which these new and intolerable attempts of her husband to dislodge the yoke of years excited in her, it was as though like Christian and Hopeful he were trying to get back into the Way, and found that the floods had risen over it.
When he was out of her sight, he fell into a boundless perplexity.
Perhaps she was right, after all.

Mr.Ancrum was a meddler and he an ass.