But that little paunchy Arbroath's worse than a whole flock o' magpies comin' together, an' 'e's actin' like a pestilence in keepin' decent folk away from their own Church.

'Owsomever, Twitt reads prayers every Sunday mornin', an' t'other day Mr.Reay came in an' 'eerd 'im.

An' Mr.Reay sez--'Twitt, ye're better than any parson I ever 'eerd!' An' I believe 'e is--'e's got real 'art an' feelin' for Scripter texes, an' sez 'em just as solemn as though 'e was carvin' 'em on tombstones.

It's powerful movin'!" Mary kept a grave face, but said nothing.
"An' last Sunday," went on Mrs.Twitt, encouraged, "Mr.Reay hisself read us a chapter o' the New Tesymen, an' 'twas fine! Twitt an' me, we felt as if we could 'a served the Lord faithful to the end of the world! An' we 'ardly ever feels like that in Church.

In Church they reads the words so sing-songy like, that, bein' tired, we goes to sleep wi' the soothin' drawl.