[For a moment she draws the shawl over her face and is shaken with weeping.

Harry.  I wouldn’t take on so, if ’twas me.

May.  And did you say as how there was a light in the window?  ’Twill be but fire light then, for th’ old woman she never would bring out the lamp afore ’twas night, close-handed old she-cat as her was, what’d lick up a drop of oil on to the tongue of her sooner nor it should go wasted.

Harry.  There, ’tis shining better now—­or maybe as the fog have shifted.

May.  ’Tis nigh to home as I be, Harry.

Harry.  Then get and stand up out of the wet grass there, and I’ll go along of you a bit further.  ’Twill not be much out of my way.  Nothing to take no count of.

May.  No, no, Harry.  I bain’t going to cross that field, nor yet stand at the door knocking till the dark has fallen on me.  Why, is it like as I’d let them see me coming over the meadow and going through the gate in this? [Holding up a ragged shawl.] In these? [Pointing to her broken shoes.] And—­as I be to-day.

[Spreading out her arms and then suddenly bending forward in a fit of anguished coughing.

Harry.  There, there, you be one as is too handy with the tongue, like.  Don’t you go for to waste the breath inside of you when you’ll be wanting all your words for they as bides up yonder and as doesn’t know that you be coming back.

May. [Throwing apart her shawl and struggling with her cough.] Harry, you take the tin and fill it at the ditch and give I to drink.  ’Tis all live coals within I here, so ’tis.

Harry.  You get along home, and maybe as them’ll find summat better nor water from the ditch to give you.

May.  No, no, what was I a-saying to you?  The dark must fall and cover me, or I won’t never go across the field nor a-nigh the house.  Give I to drink, give I to drink.  And then let me bide in quiet till all of the light be gone.

Harry. [Taking out a tin mug from the bundle beside her.] Where be I to find drink, and the frost lying stiff upon the ground?

May. [Pointing.] Up yonder, where the ash tree do stand.  Look you there, ’tis a bit of spouting as do come through the hedge, and water from it, flowing downwards away to the ditch.

[Harry goes off with the can.  May watches him, drawing her shawl again about her and striving to suppress a fit of coughing.

[Harry returns and holds out the can.

May.  ’Tis not very quick as you’ve been, Harry Moss.  Here—­give it to I fast.  Give!

[Harry puts the can towards her and she takes it in her hands, which shake feverishly, and she drinks with sharp avidity.

May.  ’Tis the taste as I have thought on these many a year.  Ah, and have gotten into my mouth, too, when I did lay sleeping, that I have.  Water from yonder spout, with the taste of dead leaves sharp in it.  Drink of it, too, Harry.