HADDA PADDA.  Do you think so?

HERBORIST. Evening-glow means warm, morning-glow means storm.

HADDA PADDA [is silent].

HERBORIST. Why do you look at me so long?

HADDA PADDA.  You have such a peaceful smile on your face.  Are you always so contented?

HERBORIST. I have no reason not to be.

HADDA PADDA.  Have you never been discontented with life?

HERBORIST. Yes, when I deserved it.  But when one is kind to every one, life brings peace and happiness.

HADDA PADDA.  Has kindness never taken revenge?

HERBORIST. Kindness does not take revenge.  It is only evil that takes revenge.

HADDA PADDA.  Then you have been obedient to your fate?

HERBORIST. What I say is true, my girl.  Life treats us as we deserve.  We cannot get rid of our past.  Nature is a righteous judge.

HADDA PADDA.  Nature is heartless and blind.

HERBORIST. Nature IS a righteous judge.  I shall never forget something that happened thirty years ago.  I lived at the sea-shore then.  One day, when I was washing fish with some other girls, we saw a woman from the farm take her child by the hand and lead her out to a jutting rock—­when the flood tide came it took her. ...

HADDA PADDA [looking up].

HERBORIST. ...  The case was brought before the judge.  The mother insisted that she had left the child on the ridge, and that it must have walked down to the shore while she was gathering some dulse.  Each of us had to point out the spot where she had left the child, but the mother pointed to the ridge.  As she raised her three fingers to swear that it was true, a wave rose, and out of it shot a white column of foam.  It stretched like an arm into the air—­like an arm with three swearing fingers.  The sea itself swore against her.

HADDA PADDA [A cold shiver runs through her.  She draws her scarf more closely around her].  It is so strangely cold here.

HERBORIST. The sun is going down.  I had better be going. [The bag upsets, and some plants slip out.]

HADDA PADDA.  The dandelion is slipping out of the bag.  Grant the dandelion its life.

HERBORIST. I can’t grant the dandelion its life.  Perhaps to-morrow a mother will come with her little girl.  “Rid her of her warts,” she will say, “for her hands are so fine.” ...

HADDA PADDA [takes the dandelion in her hands].  Grant the dandelion its life.  Do you see how it stretches its thousand delicate fingers to the fading light?  If you plant it again, it will close up and be silent a whole night with joy.

HERBORIST. You are silent and you don’t smile—­is it with joy?

HADDA PADDA.  You must not ask me that.

HERBORIST. Smile, and I will grant the dandelion its life.

HADDA PADDA.  Now I am smiling.

HERBORIST [thrusts her hand into the bag].  Tell me of your joy, young woman.  Each time you give an answer you grant a flower its life.—­