Eilir Morris [running in breathless]. They're throwin' nuts on the fire—
Vavasour. Is she there?
Eilir Morris. I'm thinkin' she is, but old Pally Hughes was just throwin' a nut on the fire an'—
Vavasour [impatiently]. 'Tis no matter about Pally Hughes whatever, but your Aunt Kats, did—
Eilir Morris. There was only the light of the fire; I did not see her, but I'll go again.
Vavasour. Watch for her nut an' see does it burn brightly.
Eilir Morris [going out]. Aye.
Vavasour [calling after]. Mind, I'm wantin' to know what she's doin'. [He has scarcely spoken the last word when a great commotion is heard: a door across the street being slammed to violently, and the sound of running feet. Vavasour straightens up, his eyes in terror on the door, which Catherine Jones throws open and bursts through.]
Vavasour [holding out his arms]. Catherine, is it really ye! [Catherine, after a searching glance at him, draws herself up. Vavasour draws himself up, too, and then stoops to pick up some peat which he puts on the fire, and crosses over to left and sits down on the settle near the chimney, without having embraced her. Catherine's face is flushed, her eyes wild under the pretty white cap she wears, a black Welsh beaver above it. She is dressed in a scarlet cloak, under this a tight bodice and short, full skirt, bright stockings, and clogs with brass tips. Her apron is of heavy linen, striped; over her breast a kerchief is crossed, and from the elbows down to the wrist are full white sleeves stiffly starched.]
Catherine. Yiss, yiss, 'twas dull at Pally's—very dull. My nut didn't burn very brightly, an'—an'—well, indeed, my feet was wet, an' I feared takin' a cold.