"Tell me about her. Talk 'bout her doin's an' sayin's. Did she forgive that man afore she died or dedn' she?"
"Iss, I reckon so."
Mary mentioned those things best calculated in her opinion to lighten the other's sorrow. He nodded from time to time as she spoke, and walked up and down with his hands behind, him. When she stopped, he asked her to tell him further facts. Then the light waned under the sycamore trees and only a red fire still touched their topmost boughs.
"We'll go now," Noy said. "An' she died believin' just the same as what you do—eh, Mary?"
"Uncle's sure of it—positive sartain 'twas so."
"An' you?"
"I pray that he was right. Iss fay, I've grawed to b'lieve truly our Joan was saved, spite of all. I never 'sactly understood her thots, nor she mine; but she'm in heaven now I do think."
"If bitterness an' sorrer counts she should be. An' you may take it from me she is. An' I'll come back, tu, if I may hope for awnly the lowest plaace. I'll come back an' walk along to church wance agin wi' you, wance 'fore I goes back to sea. Will 'e let me do that, Mary Chirgwin?"
"I thank God to hear you say so. You'm welcome to come along wi' me next
Sunday if you mind to."
"An' now us'll go up the Carn an' look out 'pon the land and see the sun sink."