“Oh, no, John, not over. Do not say it’s over yet. Not quite yet. I heard your noble words. I could not steal out again, letting you think me ignorant of what you said. Do not say it’s over—’till the clock has struck again!”
Dot had entered quietly while John and Tackleton were talking, and had heard every word.
“No hand can make the clock which will strike again for me the hours that are gone,” replied the carrier, with a faint smile. “But let it be so, if you will, my dear.”
“Well!” muttered Tackleton. “I must be off, for when it strikes again, I must be on my way to church. Good-by, John Peerybingle.”
The carrier saw him to the door, watched his horse until it disappeared in the distance, and then went out himself.
His little wife, being left alone, sobbed piteously, but often dried her tears to say how good and dear he was!—and once or twice she laughed through her tears so heartily and triumphantly that Tilly was quite horrified.
“Ow, if you please, don’t!” said Tilly. “It’s enough to dead and bury the baby; so it is, if you please.”
“Will you bring him to see me sometimes,” inquired her mistress, “when I don’t live here, and have gone to my old home?”
“Ow, if you please, don’t!” cried Tilly, throwing back her head. She looked a great deal like Boxer when he howled. “Ow, if you please, don’t! What has everybody gone and been and done with everybody, making everybody so miserable? Ow-w-w!”