“A grief? Oh, Davy!”
“Ay, a great, great grief! He’ve been talkin’ to hisself, Bessie. But ’tis not words; ’tis mostly only sounds.”
“Naught else?”
“Oh, ay! He’ve said——”
“Hush!” she interrupted. “’Tis not right for me t’ know. I would not have you tell——”
I would not be stopped. “He’ve said, Bessie,” I continued, catching something, it may be, of his agony, “he’ve said, ‘I pay! Oh, God, I pay!’ he’ve said. ‘Merciful Christ, hear me—oh, I pay!’”
She trembled.
“’Tis some great grief,” said I.
“Do you haste to his comfort, Davy,” she whispered, quickly. “’Twould be a kind thing t’ do.”
“Is you sure he’s wantin’ me?”