“Because I ask reverently and respect you.”
“Respect! Me?” she muttered. “Respect? O kind Lord, ’tis a strange word in my old ears! Folks mostly curse me ... the children throws stones at me! ’Tis an ill thing to be named a witch ... an’ all because I can see deeper and further than most fules, can read the good an’ evil in faces an’ know a sight about yarbs an’ simples. An’ they’re fruttened o’ me, the fules ... ah, an’ they need be, some on ’em—’specially one!”
“You were weeping when I saw you first, Penelope; yet tears do not come easily with you, I judge.”
“Tears?” she exclaimed fiercely. “An’ yet I’ve shed s’ many ’tis gert wonder there be any left. ’Tis wonnerful how much one woman can weep in one lifetime, I reckon.”
“And why did you weep to-day?”
“’Tidn’t no manner o’ business o’ yourn, young man!” she exclaimed bitterly.
“Why, then, pray forgive me!” he answered, with a little bow; at this she stared and immediately spoke in changed voice.
“I wep’, sir, because this day week I’m to be turned out o’ doors wi’ never a roof to shelter me—unless some o’ the neighbours offers—which they won’t ... Lord, tak’ care o’ the trug, young man, if ye swing it so fierce ’twill go to pieces!”
“Why are you being turned out?”
“Because they be arl fruttened o’ me—an’ him most of arl——”