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'Nay, noan so, Gronny. God cornd love Job better nor I loved him. 'But he willn't ged crushed in a coile seam i' heaven; naa, lass, will he? 'Thaa's reet, Gronny, he willn't. But if He mak's us work here, why does He kill us o'er th' job, as he's killed mi little lad? 'Thaa mun ax Mr. Penrose that, lass; I'm no scholard. 'Aw'll tell thee what it is, Gronny.
What con they be doin' aat o' th' pit at this time? They're noan off the shift afore ten, and it's nobbud hawve-past six. In another moment the door of the cottage was thrown open and a collier entered, white with falling snow, and breathless. When he had sufficiently recovered, he said: 'Gronny, little Job Wallwork's getten crushed in th' four-foot, and it's a'most up wi' him.
'Gronny, I don't believe i' th' hoile. 'Bless thee, my darlin' no more do I. 'I durnd think as God ud send me where yo' an' mi dad wouldn't let me go would He, gronny? 'Nowe, lad, He wouldn't, forsure.
Morell said to me when mi lad lay deead o' th' fayver, and noan on 'em would come near me. But aw sez, "Mr. Morell, theer's mony steps, an' I cornd climb 'em." An', doesto know, every time as I fretted and felt daan, I used to think o' him as was upstairs, and remember haa aw wur climbin' th' steps an' gettin' nearer him. 'But yo've noan getten to th' top yet, Gronny.
Aw durnd know; but whether thaa's to climb mony or few thaa'll hev strength gien thee, as aw hev. 'Aw wish God's other room wurnd so far off, Gronny nobbud t'other side o' th' wall instead o' th' story aboon. Durnd yo'? 'Nay, lass; they're safer upstairs. Thaa knows He put's 'em aat o' harm's way. 'But aw somehaa think aw could ha' takken care o' little Job a bit longer.
'But if God puts fo'k i' th' hoile, why shuldn't mi faither put me i' th' hoile? It's reet to do as God does isn't it, gronny? 'Whatever wilto ax me next, lad? cried the worn-out and perplexed old woman. 'Come, shut up th' Bible, and eat thi pasty.
And haa doesto feel? The boy tried to move, and uttered a feeble cry of pain. 'Lie thee still, lad. Doesto think thaa can ston this? and the old woman laid another hot flannel on the boy's body. At first he winced, and a look of terrible torture passed over his face. Then he smiled and said: 'Yi! Gronny, aw can bide thee to do ought. Mr.
'Aw welly think he does, lass; but durnd bother him naa. He's happen restin', poor little lad; or happen he's telling them as is up aboon all abaat thee who knows? 'Aw say, Gronny, Jesus made deead fo'k yer Him when He spok', didn't He? 'Yi, lass, He did forsure. 'Who wur that lass He spok' to when He turned 'em all aat o' th' room, wi' their noise and shaatin'?
'I durnd know what yo' mean, Gronny. 'Why, it's i' this way, lass; my Jimmy and yor little Job wur aar own, wurnd they? 'Yi, forsure they wur. 'We feshioned 'em, as the Psalmist sez, didn't we? 'Thaa sez truth, Gronny, wept the younger woman. 'And we feshioned 'em lads an' o'. 'Yi, and fine uns; leastways, my little Job wur bless him.
Penrose and Malachi o' the Mount, while on the settle beneath the window lay the sheeted dead. 'Where's th' lad? cried the mother, the torture of a great fear racking her features and agonizing her voice. There was no reply, the three watchers by the dead helplessly and mutely gazing at the snow-covered figure that stood beneath the open doorway within a yard of her child. 'Gronny, doesto yer?
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