‘It’s gone now,’ said Betty. ‘I shall be stronger than I was afore. Many thanks to ye, my dears, and when you come to be as old as I am, may others do as much for you!’
They assisted her to rise, but she could not stand yet, and they supported her when she sat down again upon the bench.
‘My head’s a bit light, and my feet are a bit heavy,’ said old Betty, leaning her face drowsily on the breast of the woman who had spoken before. ‘They’ll both come nat’ral in a minute. There’s nothing more the matter.’
‘Ask her,’ said some farmers standing by, who had come out from their market-dinner, ‘who belongs to her.’
‘Are there any folks belonging to you, mother?’ said the woman.
‘Yes sure,’ answered Betty. ‘I heerd the gentleman say it, but I couldn’t answer quick enough. There’s plenty belonging to me. Don’t ye fear for me, my dear.’
‘But are any of ’em near here?’ said the men’s voices; the women’s voices chiming in when it was said, and prolonging the strain.
‘Quite near enough,’ said Betty, rousing herself. ‘Don’t ye be afeard for me, neighbours.’
‘But you are not fit to travel. Where are you going?’ was the next compassionate chorus she heard.
‘I’m a going to London when I’ve sold out all,’ said Betty, rising with difficulty. ‘I’ve right good friends in London. I want for nothing. I shall come to no harm. Thankye. Don’t ye be afeard for me.’