She looked up in some surprise.
‘Oh,’ she answered. ‘’Tis you? I’m better, thank ye kindly. There’s not many cares to ask.’
‘Do you remember,’ Paul demanded, with a face whiter than her own, ‘what you said at the doctor’s the night you were hurt?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘What was it?’
‘The doctor asked you what your trade was,’ said Paul.
‘Yes,’ she said; ‘I mind it now.’
‘Did you mean it?’ Paul asked.
‘Ye’re a trifle over-young to turn parson,’ she responded. ‘Go your ways, child, and don’t be bothering.’
‘Don’t ask me to go yet,’ said Paul ‘I’ve something I want to say to you.’ His voice stuck in his throat, and she turned her glance towards him in a new surprise. ‘You said,’ he went on with difficulty, ‘that you were sure to go to hell.’
‘I’m that,’ she answered dryly, drawing her shawl about her shoulders.