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Squoire a'nt come o' fifty yet; no, nor an't nigh it, though he looks it. Things be altered at Greemsbury" such was the rural pronunciation "altered sadly, neebor Oaklerath. Well, well; I'll soon be gone, I will, and so it an't no use talking; but arter paying one pound fifteen for them acres for more nor fifty year, I didn't think I'd ever be axed for forty shilling."
"You've been out, uncle; you ought to have the news. How's Mrs Green?" "Really as bad as ennui and solitude can make her." "And Mrs Oaklerath?" "She's getting better, because she has ten children to look after, and twins to suckle. What has he been doing?" And the doctor pointed towards the room occupied by Sir Louis. Mary's conscience struck her that she had not even asked.
"I minds well," said Farmer Oaklerath to his neighbour, "when the squoire hisself comed of age. Lord love 'ee! There was fun going that day. There was more yale drank then than's been brewed at the big house these two years. T'old squoire was a one'er." "And I minds when squoire was borned; minds it well," said an old farmer sitting opposite. "Them was the days! It an't that long ago neither.
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