Harry.  ’Tis no water as I wants, May.  Give I summat as’ll lie more warm and comfortable to th’ inside like.  I bain’t one for much water, and that’s the truth, ’tis. [He empties the water on the ground.

May.  Then go you out upon your way, Harry Moss, for the dark be gathering on us fast, and there be many a mile afore you to the town, where the lamps do shine and ’tis bright and warm in the places where they sells the drink.

Harry.  Once I sets off running by myself, I’ll get there fast enough, May.  But I be going to stop along of you a bit more, for I don’t care much about letting you bide lonesome on the road, like.

May.  Then sit you down aside of me, Harry, and the heat in my body, which is like flames, shall maybe warm yourn, too.

Harry. [Sitting down by her side.] ’Tis a fine thing to have a home what you can get in and go to, May, with a bit of fire to heat the limbs of you at, and plenty of victuals as you can put inside.  How was it as you ever came away from it, like?

May.  Ah, and that’s what I be asking of myself most of the time, Harry!  For, ’tis summat like a twelve or eleven year since I shut the door behind me and went out.

[A slight pause.

May.  Away from them all, upon the road—­so ’twas.

Harry.  And never see’d no more of them, nor sent to say how ’twas with you, nor nothing?

May.  Nor nothing, Harry.  Went out and shut the door behind me.  And ’twas finished.

[A long pause, during which the darkness has gathered.

Harry.  Whatever worked on you for to do such a thing, May?

May. [Bitterly.] Ah now, whatever did!

Harry.  ’Tweren’t as though you might have been a young wench, flighty like, all for the town and for they as goes up and about the streets of it.  For, look you here, ’tis an old woman as you be now, May, and has been a twenty year or more, I don’t doubt.

May.  An old woman be I, Harry?  Well, to the likes of you ’tis so, I count.  But a twelve year gone by, O, ’twas a fine enough looking maid as I was then—­Only a wild one, Harry, a wild one, all for the free ways of the road and the lights of the fair—­And for the sun to rise in one place where I was, and for I to be in t’other when her should set.

Harry.  I’d keep my breath for when ’twas wanted, if ’twas me.

May.  Come, look I in the face, Harry Moss, and tell I if so be as they’ll be likely to know I again up at home?

Harry.  How be I to tell you such a thing, May, seeing that ’tis but a ten days or less as I’ve been along of you on the road?  And seeing that when you was a young wench I never knowed the looks of you neither?

May.  Say how the face of I do seem to you now, Harry, and then I’ll tell you how ’twas in the days gone by?