Gladys.  Mother says so tu.  She’s praaper set against gossip.  She’ll know all about it to-morrow after market.

Ivy. [Stamping her foot] I don’t want to ‘ear nothin’ at all; I don’t, an’ I won’t.

     [A rather shame faced silence falls on the girls.]

Gladys. [In a quick whisper] ’Ere’s Mrs. Burlacombe.

     [There enters fawn the house a stout motherly woman with a round
     grey eye and very red cheeks.]

Mrs. Burlacombe.  Ivy, take Mr. Strangway his ink, or we’ll never ‘eve no sermon to-night.  He’m in his thinkin’ box, but ’tis not a bit o’ yuse ‘im thinkin’ without ’is ink. [She hands her daughter an inkpot and blotting-pad.  Ivy Takes them and goes out] What ever’s this? [She picks up the little bird-cage.]

Gladys.  ’Tis Mercy Jarland’s.  Mr. Strangway let her skylark go.

Mrs. Burlacombe.  Aw!  Did ’e now?  Serve ‘er right, bringin’ an ’eathen bird to confirmation class.

Connie.  I’ll take it to her.

Mrs. Burlacombe.  No.  Yu leave it there, an’ let Mr. Strangway du what ‘e likes with it.  Bringin’ a bird like that!  Well ’I never!

     [The girls, perceiving that they have lighted on stony soil,
     look at each other and slide towards the door.]

Mrs. Burlacombe.  Yes, yu just be off, an’ think on what yu’ve been told in class, an’ be’ave like Christians, that’s gude maids.  An’ don’t yu come no more in the ‘avenin’s dancin’ them ’eathen dances in my barn, naighther, till after yu’m confirmed—­’tisn’t right.  I’ve told Ivy I won’t ’ave it.

Connie.  Mr. Strangway don’t mind—­he likes us to; ’twas Mrs. Strangway began teachin’ us.  He’s goin’ to give a prize.

Mrs. Burlacombe.  Yu just du what I tell yu an’ never mind Mr. Strangway—­he’m tu kind to everyone.  D’yu think I don’t know how gells oughter be’ave before confirmation?  Yu be’ave like I did!  Now, goo ahn!  Shoo!

[She hustles them out, rather as she might hustle her chickens, and begins tidying the room.  There comes a wandering figure to the open window.  It is that of a man of about thirty-five, of feeble gait, leaning the weight of all one side of him on a stick.  His dark face, with black hair, one lock of which has gone white, was evidently once that of an ardent man.  Now it is slack, weakly smiling, and the brown eyes are lost, and seem always to be asking something to which there is no answer.]

Mrs. Burlacombe. [With that forced cheerfulness always assumed in the face of too great misfortune] Well, Jim! better? [At the faint brightening of the smile] That’s right!  Yu’m gettin’ on bravely.  Want Parson?

Jim. [Nodding and smiling, and speaking slowly] I want to tell ’un about my cat.