"You know 'ow such things grow, miss. There was a sheep stole. An' Cousin William told 'ow 'Arry killed a lamb an' buried it in the peat bog—though 'twas a year gone. An' then there was bickerin' between the farms—an' 'Arry's father took the boy's part an' quarreled. All the farmers 'ad shares in a meadows where they cut 'ay, an' there started a dispute about our share an' theirs. An' so it went, till 'Arry 'ad to pass me without lookin' aside when we were comin' to church, an' we only met up the beck when I could steal away from the others an' 'ave ourselves alone.
That was near the end o' the good days. Cousin William grew to be a strong lad—so fat 'is cheeks shook when 'e walked—fer 'e walked 'eavy on 'is 'eels. An' 'e talked 'thee' an' 'thou,' like the rest, with their way o' speakin' without endin' the words, as if they got the mouth open on a broad 'oo' an' 'ad their jaws stuck. An' 'e plagued me now with 'is calf's eyes—an' 'is ribands bought on market days. An' 'is mother plagued me because she saw 'ow it was with 'im, an' she 'd not 'ave 'er son marry a girl with naught. An' 'Arry went away to town to study to be a scholar, just when they were mowin' the bracken on the fells for the winter's kindlin's. An' my schooldays were over. An' I thought there 'd be no more 'appiness for me in this world, miss."
"Did n't you write to him?"
"No, miss. There was no way to get the letters. But when 'e come 'ome for Christmas, we met again
