"About me? La, 'Liphalet, what have you been a-thinkin' now?" The "now" sounded as if his thoughts were usually rather irresponsible.
"It was about you an'—an'—old Bess."
"About me an' old Bess! Bless my soul, man, will you stop beatin' about the bush an' tell me what on airth I 've got to do with yore horse?"
"Old Bess is dead, Miss Hester; died last night o' colic."
"Well, I thought there was somethin' the matter with you. I 'm mighty sorry to hear about the poor old creatur; but she 'd served you a long while."
"That 's jest what set me a-thinkin': she has served me a long while, an' now she 's dead. Do you know what that means, Miss Hester? It means that we 're a-gittin' old, you an' me. Do you know when I got old Bess? It was nigh thirty years
ago: I used to ride her up to this door an' tie her to that tree out there: it was a saplin' then. An' now she 's dead."
The man's voice trembled, and his listener was strangely silent.
"You know on what errands the old horse used to bring me," he went on, "but it was n't to be,—then. Hester," he rose, went over to her, and looked down into her half-averted face, which went red and pale by turns,—"Hester, 'ain't we wasted time enough?"
There was a long pause before she lifted her face: he stood watching her with the light of a great eagerness in his eyes. At last she spoke. There was a catch in her voice; it was softer than usual.