"Well, I don't know," said Job slowly at length. "Seems to me that don't make the way clear at all."
"I tell ye there's nothin' else to be done. You ain't young no longer, an' for you to burden yourself with a great growin' girl—it'll mayhap bring you to the work'us one day."
"Mayhap," said Job.
"You're not thinkin' in earnest of doin' it, eh?"
"Can't just tell," said Job.
"You've kept her nigh a fortnight on, in hopes o' her mother's comin' back. 'Tain't likely we'll see her now. If she haven't met with foul play o' some kind, it's like her heart failed her, an' she was 'shamed to face the neighbours, just out o' jail. She prided herself a deal on her good name. But if she don't choose to come an' take charge of her own child, what's left to Ailie but the work'us?"
"True," said Job.
"An' ye'll send her there?"
"I'll think first," said Job.
"You'll think yerself into a mighty unprudent action, if you don't look sharp," said John.