“I’d ha’ feared naught; but ’tis ower.”
“Nor th’ men-women ye mought meet at any Pike?”
“I’d ha’ feared naught; but I’m leavin’ him.”
“An’ ye cam to say good-bye to me?”
Bessie turned half away, and spoke over her shoulder.
“Ay, an’ to tell one that I thought were a woman that which if onnybody told it to me wad ha’ been gentler ta’en, an’ happen a tear betwixt th’ two on us.”
Harriet laughed a short, dry laugh.
“I kenned it when I saw ye come in, bairn; an’ now here’s a makkin’ o’ butter settled an’ spoiled. Nay, nay; ye cam’ to gi’e me naught; ye cam’ to greet o’ this bosom o’ mine, if I naughbut had one. Well, greet, bairn.—Thou fool!” she whispered, as Bessie laid her cheek, sobbing, on her flat breast, “up-saddle to-neet, an’ off wi’ him! De’il tak’ me, he lo’es thee; up-saddle an’ off! Rebecca wadna mell on ye; ’tis for the poor fowk she sweeps—th’ poor fowk that bides at home an’ pays under th’ Pike Act for th’ roads that th’ rich gads about on. Has—has he said he lo’es ye?”
“Ay, a thousand times!” Harriet closed her eyes for a moment.
“Then, up an’ off, wer’t i’ thy sark! Harry wad never ha’ had me, e’en if I’d ha’ had him; I’m naughbut an owd shoe to fling at others’ weddings; I’m ... up an’ off, to-neet, Bessie; ’tis odds a blacksmith can weld as strong a hoop as a parson!”