“What in the world,” she asked, “is you thinkin’ so dolefully of?”
“I been thinkin’,” I answered, sighing, “o’ the folk down narth.”
“Of the man at Runner’s Woe?” the doctor asked.
“No, zur. He on’y done murder. ’Twas not o’ he. ’Twas o’ something sadder than that.”
“Then ’tis too sad to tell,” he said.
“No,” I insisted. “’Twould do well-fed folk good t’ hear it.”
“What was it?” my sister asked.
“I was thinkin’——”
Ah, but ’twas too sad!