“Was he daft?” saith Madge.
“Well, nay, I reckon not,” saith he.
“I’ll tell ye how it were,” saith she. “His soul was daft—that’s it—right th’ inside of him, ye ken.”
“Ay, I reckon thou’rt about right,” quoth Isaac.
“Well, I wouldn’t have wanted that,” saith she. “I’d have wist by His face and the way He said ‘Good morrow, Thomas!’ I’d never have wanted to hurt Him more to see whether it were Him. So He’d rather be hurt than leave Thomas a-wondering! Well—it were just like Him.”
“He’s better than men be, Madge,” saith Aunt Joyce, tenderly.
“That’s none so much to say, Mistress Joyce,” saith Madge. “Men’s bad uns. And some’s rare bad uns. So’s women, belike. I’d liever ha’ th’ door betwixt.”
Madge hath alway had a strange fantasy to shut the half-door betwixt her and them she loveth not. There be very few she will let come withinside. I reckon them that may might be counted of her fingers.
“Well, Madge, there shall be no need to shut to the door in Heaven,” saith Aunt Joyce. “The gates be never shut by day; and there is no night there.”
“They’ve no night! Eh, that’s best thing ever you told me yet!” quoth Madge. “I canna ’bide th’ dark. It’ll be right bonnie, it will!”