“Yes, Betty; I will see that he has fair play. Don't trouble about that, it will be all right. You must be quite quiet, and not trouble yourself about anything, that you may get well and about again.”
“Nay, nay, Master Tom. I be gwine whoam; ees, I be gwine whoam to my maester, Harry's father—I knows I be—and you'll stand by un when I be gone; and Squire Brown 'll say a good word for un to the justices?”
“Yes, Betty, that he will. But you must cheer up, and you'll get better yet; don't be afraid.”
“I beant afeard, Master Tom; no, bless you, I beant afeard but what the Lord'll be mussiful to a poor lone woman like me, as has had a sore time of it since my measter died wi' a hungry boy like our Harry to kep, back and belly; and the rheumatics terrible bad all winter time.”
“I'm sure, Betty, you have done your duty by him, and everyone else.”
“Dwontee speak o' doin's, Master Tom. 'Tis no doin's o' ourn as'll make any odds where I be gwine.”
Tom did not know what to answer; so he pressed her hand and said,—
“Well, Betty, I am very glad I have seen you once more; I sha'n't forget it. Harry sha'n't want a friend while I live.”
“The Lord bless you, Master Tom, for that word,” said the dying woman, returning the pressure, as her eyes filled with tears. Katie, who had been watching her carefully from the other side of the bed, made him a sign to go.
“Good-bye, Betty” he said; “I won't forget, you may be sure; God bless you;” and then, disengaging his hand gently, went out again into the porch, where he sat down to wait for his cousin.