Harry. And where was it you did go to, May, once you was out and the door shut ahind of you?
May. Ah—where! To the east, to the south, every part. ’Twas morning with I in that time, and the heart of I was warm. And them as went along of I on the road, did cast but one look into the countenance of I. Then ’twas the best as they could give as I might take; and ’twas for no lodging as I did want when dark did come falling.
Harry. And yet, look you here, you be brought down terrible low, May.
May. The fine looks of a woman be as grass, Harry, and in the heat of the day they do wither and die. And that what has once been a grand flower in the hand of a man is dropped upon the ground and spat upon, maybe. So ’twas with I.
[She bows her head on her knees, and for a moment is shaken with sudden grief.
Harry. Don’t you take on so, May. Look you here, you be comed to the end of your journeying this day, and that you be.
May. [Raising her head.] Ah, ’tis so, ’tis so. And ’tis rare glad as them’ll be to see I once again. Steve, he’s a hard man, but a good one—And I’ll tell you this, Harry Moss, he’ll never take up with no woman what’s not me—and that he won’t—I never knowed him much as look on one, times past; and ’twill be the same as ever now, I reckon. And little Dorry, ’twill be fine for her to get her mammy back, I warrant—so ’twill.
[A slight pause.
May. Th’ old woman—well—I shan’t take it amiss if her should be dead, like. Her was always a smartish old vixen to I, that her was, and her did rub it in powerful hard as Steve was above I in his station and that. God rest the bones of she, for I count her’ll have been lying in the churchyard a good few years by now. But I bain’t one to bear malice, and if so be as her’s above ground, ’tis a rare poor old wretch with no poison to the tongue of she, as her’ll be this day—so ’tis.
Harry. Look you here—the snow’s begun to fall and ’tis night. Get up and go in to them all yonder. ’Tis thick dark now and there be no one on the road to see you as you do go.