Connie.  There it is on the ground.

Ivy.  She might have.

Gladys.  He’ll p’raps take my squirrel, tu.

Ivy.  The bird sang—­I ’eard it!  Right up in the sky.  It wouldn’t have sanged if it weren’t glad.

Gladys.  Well, Mercy cried.

Ivy.  I don’t care.

Gladys.  ’Tis a shame!  And I know something.  Mrs. Strangway’s at
Durford.

Connie.  She’s—­never!

Gladys.  I saw her yesterday.  An’ if she’s there she ought to be here.  I told mother, an’ she said:  “Yu mind yer business.”  An’ when she goes in to market to-morrow she’m goin’ to see.  An’ if she’s really there, mother says, ‘tis a fine tu-du an’ a praaper scandal.  So I know a lot more’n yu du.

     [Ivy stares at her.]

Connie.  Mrs. Strangway told mother she was goin’ to France for the winter because her mother was ill.

Gladys.  ‘Tisn’t, winter now—­Ascension Day.  I saw her cumin’ out o’ Dr. Desert’s house.  I know ’twas her because she had on a blue dress an’ a proud luke.  Mother says the doctor come over here tu often before Mrs. Strangway went away, just afore Christmas.  They was old sweethearts before she married Mr. Strangway. [To Ivy] ’Twas yure mother told mother that.

     [Ivy gazes at them more and more wide-eyed.]

Connie.  Father says if Mrs. Bradmere an’ the old Rector knew about the doctor, they wouldn’t ’ave Mr. Strangway ’ere for curate any longer; because mother says it takes more’n a year for a gude wife to leave her ‘usband, an’ ’e so fond of her.  But ’tisn’t no business of ours, father says.

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!