May. Help I to get off the ground then, Harry, for the limbs of me be powerful weak.
Harry. [Lifting her up.] The feel of your body be as burning wood, May.
May. [Standing up.] Put me against the stile, Harry, and then let I bide alone.
Harry. Do you let me go over the field along of you, May, just to the door.
May. No, no, Harry, get you off to the town and leave me to bide here a while in the quiet of my thoughts. ’Tis of little Dorry, and of how pleased her’ll be to see her mammy once again, as I be thinking. But you, Harry Moss, as han’t got no home to go to, nor fireside, nor victuals, you set off towards the town. And go you quick.
Harry. There’s summat in me what doesn’t care about leaving you so, May.
May. And if ever you should pass this way come spring-time, Harry, when the bloom is white on the trees, and the lambs in the meadows, come you up to the house yonder, and may be as I’ll be able to give you summat to keep in remembrance of me. For to-day, ’tis empty-handed as I be.
Harry. I don’t want nothing from you, May, I don’t.
May. [Fumbling in her shawl.] There, Harry—’tis comed back to my mind now. [She takes out part of a loaf of bread.] Take you this bread. And to-night, when you eats of it, think on me, and as how I be to home with Steve a-holding of my hand and little Dorry close against me; and plenty of good victuals, with a bed to lie upon warm. There, Harry, take and eat.
[She holds the bread to him.