We won’t meet any more. He ’aven’t come,
Nigh me—not for a year.
And when he did come back—he went again
Next day.
Snowman. Went? Where?
Joan. Nowhere. He roves about. Seeing the world, ’e calls it. Roving blood. That’s been ’is curse; and mind, ’is roving blood, it haven’t always roved. He liked his ease, he liked the victuals I give him well enough, he liked his fireside, and he liked his bed when I was by ’im. Ah! And then one day he’d ’ad enough of comfort, and was off,—looking for what? ’Ardship? He might have ’ad that ’ere if he’d but stayed. Aye, that ’e could—for it’s been ’ard enough—with they two there. Ah, you may look at ’em, they ’aven’t known trouble—yet they was with me all the time. Why, there’ve been days when I’ve not ’ad enough to eat myself. And what ’ave fed me? Just to ’ear ’em laugh and think they ’aven’t known. What do you look at me like that for? What do you know? What did you come for? Say!
Snowman. To bring you comfort.
Joan. Comfort? I’ve got no place for comfort in me now. It isn’t that I want—it’s rest.
Snowman. ’Tis rest I bring.
Joan. Where’s ’e?