"Give over, can't ye," cried Mary. "You'll be giving me the creepies. If yew wur to turn carpsy I wouldn't bide wi' ye."
There was no reply. Silence fell again, and the only sound was the moaning of the wind and the roaring of the Tavy; the snow went on falling and drifting. Another hour passed, and then Mary shook off her drowsiness, and called timidly, "Peter." There was no answer; she could see nothing; her fear returned and she shuddered. "Peter," she called again; there was still no reply. Mary pressed her stout figure forward and reached out fearfully; she heard a groan. "Ah, doan't ye die," she implored; "wait till us gets out o' this. What's the matter, Peter?"
"Yew owes me a shillun," whispered a voice.
"I doan't owe it, Peter, I doan't," cried Mary. "If yew had drove me across the river I'd have paid ye, I would; but us be still in the parish of Peter Tavy——"
She was interrupted by another and a deeper groan. "Be yew that bad?" she asked earnestly.
"I be like an old clock past mending," Peter answered. "My mainspring be broke; I be about to depart this life, December the twenty-seventh, eighteen hundred and eighty-one, aged fifty-eight, in hopes of being thoroughly cleaned and repaired and set a going in the world to come."
"Can't I do anything vor ye, Peter?" asked Mary gently.
"Yew can give me the shillun yew owes me," replied Peter.
"'Tis hard of ye to want a shillun if yew'm dying."
"Business is business," Peter moaned.