"'I've a-sarved 'ee faithful,' said Jim, 'an' now you turns me out wi' a week's warnin'.' 'You've a-crossed my will,' says Tresidder, 'an' I've engaged a more pushin' hind in your place.' 'Tis a new fashion o' speech wi' Tresidder nowadays." "Ay, modern words be drivin' out the old forms.

But 'twas only to get Jim's cottage for that strong-will'd supplantin' furriner because Ruby said 'twas low manners for bride an' groom to go to church from the same house.

So no sooner was the Lewarnes out than he was in, like shufflin' cards, wi' his marriage garment an' his brush an' comb in a hand-bag.
Tresidder sent down a mattress for en, an' he slept there last night." "Eh, but that's a trifle for a campaigner." "Let this be a warnin' to 'ee, my son niver to save no more lives from drownin'." "I won't," promised Young Zeb.
"We've found 'ee a great missment," Elias observed to him, after a pause.

"The Psa'ms, these three Sundays, bain't what they was for lack o' your enlivenin' flute--I can't say they be.

An' to hear your very own name called forth in the banns wi' Ruby's, an' you wi'out part nor lot therein--" "Elias, you mean it well, no doubt; but I'd take it kindly if you sheered off." "'Twas a wisht Psa'm, too," went on Elias, "las' Sunday mornin'; an' I cudn' help my thoughts dwellin' 'pon the dismals as I blowed, nor countin' how that by this time to-morrow--" But Young Zeb had caught up his cap and rushed from the cottage.
He took, not the highway to Porthlooe, but a footpath that slanted up the western slope of the coombe, over the brow of the hill, and led in time to the coast and a broader path above the cliffs.