“I isn’t afeared.”
“You better look out!”
“Oh, Mary,” I faltered, “I—I—isn’t much afeared.”
“You better look out!”
“Leave us go home!” I begged.
“The Lard’ll ship you there an you don’t look out. He’ve no mercy on little lads.”
“Oh, leave us go home!”
“He’ll be cotchin’ you!”
I could bear it no longer: nor wished to know any more about hell. I took her hand, and dragged her from the black shadow of the rock: crying out that we must now go home. Then we went back to Tom Tot’s cheerful kitchen; and there I no longer feared hell, but could not forget, try as I would, what Mary Tot had told me about love.