“Oh, yo’ may swear as hard as yo’ like; but aw know ye’, Ben. Yo’d gotten into yo’r head ’at it wer’ yo’r mission i’ life to look after folk i’ general an’ they’d nowt to do but look ailin’ an’ pinin’ as if they couldn’t stick up for theirsen, an’ yo’ wer’ ready to tak’ them an’ their trouble on them big shoulders o’ yo’rn. That wer’ th’ way thi vanity showed itsen.”
“I was sorry for Faith, Mary. But bein’ sorry an bein’ i’ love ’s two different things.”
“Pity’s o’ kin to love,” quoted Mary. “An’ aw tell ye’, wi’ precious little encouragement an’ th’ chapter o’ accidents helpin’, yo’d ha’ been sprawling at Faith’s little feet, an ’ud ha’ gone to yo’r grave believin’ yo’d loved her sin’ first yo’ set eyes on her.”
“And who was it taught me the difference atween love and pity, Mary?” I asked.
“How should I know and why should I care quoth Mary.
“No voice has ever told me, Mary, but the voice of my own heart; no words that maid e’er spoke, but a pair of arms around my neck and a maid’s kiss upon my brow.”
“Then if that’s all yo’r warrant, I’d ‘vise yo’ not to be over certain on it. There’s many a slip ’twixt the cup ’an the lip, an’ a woman doesn’t like a felly to be too sure.”
“Nay, if yo’d have me plead on,” I began and asked nothing better than to say my say; but Mary had ever a way of slipping from my grasp.
“Do yo’ think I’ve nowt better to do nor listenin’ to this nonsense? We wer’ talkin’ about Faith, an’ how we wandered off aw’ cannot tell.”
“Well what of Faith?”