So'll the old 'oman.

Yoh'll come an' see us, soon?
Ye'r' lookin' fagged, an' yer eyes is gettin' more like yer father's.
I'm glad things is takin' a good turn with yoh; an' yoh'll never be like him, starvin' fur th' kind wured, an' havin' to die without it.
I'm glad yoh've got true love.

She'd a fair face, I think.

I wish yoh well, Stephen." Holmes shook the grimy hand, and then stood a moment looking back to the mill, from which the hands were just coming, and then down at the phaeton moving idly down the road.

How cold it was growing! People passing by had a sickly look, as if they were struck by the plague.