“After breakfast.”
“Ay, zur; a quarter of five.”
“Well, no,” he drawled. “Half after nine.”
“’Tis a sheer waste o’ time,” I protested. “But ’twill suit me, zur, an it pleases you. My sister will tell me the hour.”
“Your sister?” he asked, quickly.
“Bessie,” said I.
“Ah,” he exclaimed, “she was your sister. I saw her there—that night. And she is your sister?”
“You got it right,” cried I, proudly. “That’s my sister!”
He slapped me on the back (which shocked me, for our folk are not that playful); and, laughing heartily as he went, he took the road to Tom Tot’s, where he had found food and housing for a time. I watched him from the turn in the road, as he went lightly down the slope towards South Tickle—his trim-clad, straight, graceful figure, broad-shouldered, clean-cut, lithe in action, as compared with our lumbering gait; inefficient, ’tis true, but potentially strong. As I walked home, I straightened my own shoulders, held my head high, lifted my feet from the ground, flung bold glances to right and left, as I had seen him do: for, even then, I loved him very much. All the while I was exultantly conscious that a new duty and a new delight had come to me: some great thing, given of God—a work to do, a happiness to cherish. And that night he came and went in my dreams—but glorified: his smile not mirthless, his grave, gray eyes not overcast, his face not flabby and flushed, his voice not slow and sad, but vibrant with fine, live purpose. My waking thought was the wish that the man of the hills might be the man of my vision; and in my simple morning petition it became a prayer.
“Dear mama,” I prayed, “there’s something wrong along o’ the man who come the night you died. He’ve managed somehow t’ get wonderful sick. I’m not knowin’ what ails un, or where he cotched it; but I sees it plain in his face: an’ ’tis a woeful sickness. Do you make haste t’ the throne o’ God, please, mum, an’ tell Un I been askin’ you t’ have un cured. You’d want un well, too, an you was here; an’ the Lard ’ll surely listen t’ you, an’ take your word for ’t. Oh, do you pray the Lard, with all your might an’ main, dear mama, t’ heal that man!”