From the door you look its full length to the wide stone-shafted Tudor window at the other end.

At your left is the ponderous mantelpiece, supported by two spiral stone pillars; and close to the door at the right was the bed in which the two crones had just stretched poor Philip Feltram, who lay as still as an uncoloured wax-work, with a heavy penny-piece on each eye, and a bandage under his jaw, making his mouth look stern.

And the two old ladies over their tea by the fire conversed agreeably, compared their rheumatisms and other ailments wordily, and talked of old times, and early recollections, and of sick-beds they had attended, and corpses that "you would not know, so pined and windered" were they; and others so fresh and canny, you'd say the dead had never looked so bonny in life.
Then they began to talk of people who grew tall in their coffins, of others who had been buried alive, and of others who walked after death.
Stories as true as holy writ.
"Were you ever down by Hawarth, Mrs.Bligh--hard by Dalworth Moss ?" asked crook-backed Mrs.Wale, holding her spoon suspended over her cup.
"Neea whaar sooa far south, Mrs.Wale, ma'am; but ma father was off times down thar cuttin' peat." "Ah, then ye'll not a kenned farmer Dykes that lived by the Lin-tree Scaur.

'Tweer I that laid him out, poor aad fellow, and a dow man he was when aught went cross wi' him; and he cursed and sweared, twad gar ye dodder to hear him.

They said he was a hard man wi' some folk; but he kep a good house, and liked to see plenty, and many a time when I was swaimous about my food, he'd clap t' meat on ma plate, and mak' me eat ma fill.