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It is such a fond anxious mother's voice that you hear, as Lisbeth says, "Well, my lad, it's gone seven by th' clock. Thee't allays stay till the last child's born. Thee wants thy supper, I'll warrand. Where's Seth? Gone arter some o's chapellin', I reckon?" "Aye, aye, Seth's at no harm, mother, thee mayst be sure.
"Why, Mother," he said, "how is it as Father's working so late?" "It's none o' thy feyther as is a-workin' thee might know that well anoof if thy head warna full o' chapellin' it's thy brother as does iverything, for there's niver nobody else i' th' way to do nothin'."
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