[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.

     [His face loses its smile.]

Mrs. Burlacombe.  Why! what’s she been duin’ then?  Mr. Strangway’s busy.  Won’t I du?

Jim. [Shaking his head] No.  I want to tell him.

Mrs. Burlacombe.  Whatever she been duin’?  Havin’ kittens?

Jim.  No.  She’m lost.

Mrs. Burlacombe.  Dearie me!  Aw! she’m not lost.  Cats be like maids; they must get out a bit.

Jim.  She’m lost.  Maybe he’ll know where she’ll be.

Mrs. Burlacombe.  Well, well.  I’ll go an’ find ’im.

Jim.  He’s a gude man.  He’s very gude.

Mrs. Burlacombe.  That’s certain zure.

Strangway. [Entering from the house] Mrs. Burlacombe, I can’t think where I’ve put my book on St. Francis—­the large, squarish pale-blue one?

Mrs. Burlacombe.  Aw! there now!  I knu there was somethin’ on me mind.  Miss Willis she came in yesterday afternune when yu was out, to borrow it.  Oh! yes—­I said—­I’m zure Mr. Strangway’ll lend it ‘ee.  Now think o’ that!

Strangway.  Of course, Mrs. Burlacombe; very glad she’s got it.