"Where did you find him ?" "A couple of mile or so outside Carlisle," answered Reuben.
Rotha staggered, and must have fallen but for Matthew, who at the moment came up behind her.
"I'll tell thee what it is, lass," said the old man, "thoo'rt like to be bad thysel', and varra bad, too.

Go thy ways back to the fire." "Summat ails Robbie, no doubt about it," said Reuben.
"Of course summat _ails_ him," said Mattha, with an insinuating emphasis on the word.

"He nivver were an artistic drunkard, weren't Bobbie." "He's been ram'lin' and ram'lin' all the way home," continued Reuben.
"He's telt ower and ower agen of summat 'at were fifty yards north of the bridge." "We must take him home," said Liza, who came hurrying from the house with a blanket over her arm.

"Here, cover him with this, Rotha can spare it." In a minute more Robbie's insensible form was wrapped round and round.
"Give him room to breathe," said Mattha; "I declare ye're playing at pund-o'-mair-weight with the lad!" he added as Rotha came up with a sheepskin and a shawl.
"The night is cold, and he has all but three miles to ride yet!" said the girl.
"He lodges with 'Becca Rudd; let's be off," said Liza, clambering into the cart by the step at the shaft.

"Come up, father; quick!" "What, Bobbie, Bobbie, but this is bad wark, bad wark," said Mattha, when seated in the wagon.