“‘Master,’ says I, half laughin’ and half cryin’; ‘I dunno. I don’t fancy callin’ nobry my master.’
“He looked down at me so earnest for a bit, and then he smiled. ‘Dunnot tell me that tale,’ says he. ‘Who was it I see cryin’ when I looked in; cryin’, because hoo was so lonely?’
“‘I don’t want a master, as how ’tis,’ said I.
“‘Well then,’ says he, ‘give it another name. Say husband, Molly.’
“‘And what husband?’ says I, knowin’ very well what he was at, but lettin’ on I didn’t understand. ‘Not a farmer,’ says I, ‘for I’m not good enough to be a farmer’s missus; and not a cottager’s,’ says I, ‘for I’m too good to be a poor man’s slave; and not a soldier fur sure, for soldiers goes to the wars and gets killed; and not a sailor—’
“‘And why not a sailor, Molly,’ says he. ‘Sailors has half a dozen wives they sayn,’ I answered him back as impudent as you please, ‘and what good would it do me t’ wed wi’ a mon who was always at say?’
“‘Sailors gets paid off ship now and again; then they likes to think there’s a little whoam and a little wife waitin’ for ’em. ’Tis a miserable thing,’ says he, ‘to know as theer’s nobry lookin’ out for yo’, nobry as cares whether you are dead or wick, no place wheer yo’re made welcome.’
“‘Poor Will,’ says I, wi’ my face turned away, and my e’en cast down.
“‘Nay,’ says he, ‘it’s not poor Will, for Will knowed theer wur soombry thinkin’ on him, and soombry lookin’ out for him.’
“‘Will tak’s too much conceit in hissel’,’ says I, makkin’ shift to spake ’ard like. But he geet his arm round me again and pulled round my face to leet, an’ then it wur all ower wi’ me—he see plain enough as he’d spokken truth.”