“You cannot remain out of doors!” he exclaimed.
“If I do, it wunnot be th' first toime,” meeting his startled glance with a pride which defied him to pity or question her. But his sympathy and interest must have stirred her, for the next minute her manner softened. “I've done it often,” she added, “an' nowts nivver feared me. Yo' need na care, Mester, I'm used to it.”
“But I cannot go away and leave you here,” he said.
“You canna do no other,” she answered.
“Have you no friends?” he ventured hesitatingly.
“No, I ha' not,” she said, hardening again, and she turned away as if she meant to end the discussion. But he would not leave her. The spirit of determination was as strong in his character as in her own. He tore a leaf from his pocket-book, and, writing a few lines upon it, handed it to her. “If you will take that to Thwates' wife,” he said, “there will be no necessity for your remaining out of doors all night.”
She took it from him mechanically; but when he finished speaking, her calmness left her. Her hand began to tremble, and then her whole frame, and the next instant the note fell to the ground, and she dropped into her old place again, sobbing passionately and hiding her face on her arms.
“I wunnot tak' it!” she cried. “I wunnot go no wheer an' tell as I'm turned loike a dog into th' street.”
Her misery and shame shook her like a tempest. But she subdued herself at last.
“I dunnot see as yo' need care,” she protested half resentfully. “Other folk dunnot. I'm left to mysen most o' toimes.” Her head fell again and she trembled from head to foot.