“I wasn’t gawn to staay, sir—­to be a trooble.  I sud a gien yo’ nawtice in anoother moonth.”

She paused.  There was a spasm in her throat as if she swallowed with difficulty her bitter pride.  Her voice came thick and hoarse.

“Woan’t yo’ kape me till th’ and o’ t’ moonth, sir?” Her voice cleared suddenly.  “Than I can see yo’ trow Christmas.”

The Vicar opened his mouth to speak; but instead of speaking he stared.  His open mouth stared with a supreme astonishment.  Up till now, in his wisdom and his patience, he had borne with Essy, the Essy who had come before him one evening in September, dejected and afraid.  He hated Essy and he hated her sin, but he had borne with her then because of her sorrow and her shame.

And here was Essy with not a sign of sorrow or of shame about her, offering (in the teeth of her deserved dismissal), actually offering as a favor to stay over Christmas and to see them through.  The naked impudence of it was what staggered him.

“I have no intention of keeping you over Christmas.  You will take your notice and your wages from to-day, and you will go on Saturday.”

“Yes, sir.”

In her going Essy turned.

“Will yo’ taake me back, sir, when it’s all over?”

“No.  No.  I shouldn’t think of taking you back.”

The Vicar hid his hands in his pockets and leaned forward, thrusting his face toward Essy as he spoke.

“I’m afraid, my girl, it never will be all over, as long as you regard your sin as lightly as you do.”

Essy did not see the Vicar’s face thrust toward her.  She was sidling to the door.  She had her hand on the doorknob.

“Come back,” said the Vicar.  “I have something else to say to you.”

Essy came no nearer.  She remained standing by the door.

“Who is the man, Essy?”

At that Essy’s face began to shake piteously.  Standing by the door, she cried quietly, with soft sobs, neither hiding her face nor drying her tears as they came.

“You had better tell me,” said the Vicar.

“I s’all nat tall yo’,” said Essy, with passionate determination, between the sobs.

“You must.”

“I s’all nat—­I s’all nat.”

“Hiding it won’t help you,” said the Vicar.

Essy raised her head.

“I doan’ keer.  I doan’ keer what ’appens to mae.  What wae did—­what wae did—­lies between him and mae.”

“Did he tell you he’d marry you, Essy?”

Essy sobbed for answer.

“He didn’t?  Is he going to marry you?”

“‘Tisn’ likely ‘e’ll marry mae.  An’ I’ll not force him.”

“You think, perhaps, it doesn’t matter?”

She shook her head in utter helplessness.

“Come, make a clean breast of it.”

Then the storm burst.  She turned her tormented face to him.

“A clane breast, yo’ call it?  I s’all mak’ naw clane breasts, Mr. Cartaret, to yo’ or anybody.  I’ll ‘ave nawbody meddlin’ between him an’ mae!”