"Wull, wull," said the farmer, looking at the pitchfork first, and then at me, "Reckon the old mare’s dead at last." "Cas’n thee drame of nothing but bosses and asses, thee girt mule? Here’s Miss Clerer, as was like a cheel of my own, and now she’m gooin awai, and us’ll niver zee her no more." "What dost thee mane, ’ooman?" asked the farmer, sternly, "hast thee darr’d to goo a jahing of her, zame as thee did Zuke?" "Oh, no, farmer!" I answered, quickly, "Mrs. Huxtable never gave me an unkind word in her life. But I must leave you all, and go to live in London." The farmer looked as if he had lost something, and began feeling for it in all his pockets. Then, without a word, he went to the fire, and unhung the crock which was boiling for the family dinner. This done, he raked out the embers on the hearthstone, and sat down heavily on the settle with his back towards us. Presently we heard him say to himself, "If any cheel of mine ates ever a bit of bakkon to-day, I’ll bile him in that there pot. And to zee the copy our Sally wrote this very morning!" "Wonnerful! wonnerful!" cried Mrs. Huxtable, "and now her’ll not know a p from a pothook. And little Jack can spell zider, zame as ’em does in Lonnon town!" "Dang Lonnon town," said the farmer, savagely, "and arl as lives there, lave out the Duke of Wellington. It’s where the devil lives, and ’em catches his braath in lanterns. My faather tould me that, and her niver spak a loi. But it hain’t for the larning I be vexed to lose my dearie." That last word he dwelt upon so tenderly and sadly, that I could stop no longer, but ran up to him bravely with the tears upon my face. As I sat low before him, on little Sally’s stool, he laid his great hand on my head, with his face turned toward the settle, and asked if I had any one to see me righted in the world but him. I told him, "None whatever;" and the answer seemed at once to please and frighten him. "Then don’t e be a-gooin’, my dear heart, don’t e think no more of gooin. If it be for the bit and drap thee ates and drinks, doesn’t thee know by this time, our own flash and blood bain’t no more welcome to it! And us has a plenty here, and more nor a plenty. And if us hadn’t, Jan Huxtable hisself, and Honor Huxtable his waife, wud live on pegmale (better nor they desarves) and gie it arl to thee, and bless thee for ating of it." "Ay, that us wud, ees fai," answered Mrs. Huxtable, coming forward. "And if it be for channge, and plaisure, and zeeing of the warld, I’ve zeen a dale in my time, axing your pardon, Miss, for convarsing so to you. And what hath it been even at Coom market, with the varmers I’ve a-knowed from little chillers up? No better nor a harrow dill for a little coolt to zuck. I’d liefer know thee was a-gooin’ to Trentisoe churchyard, where little Jane and Winny be, than let thee goo to Lonnon town, zame as this here be. And what wud thy poor moother zay, if so be her could hear tell of it?"