Harry.  ’Tis all too dark like for to see clear, May.  The night be coming upon we wonderful fast.

May.  The hair, ’twas bright upon my head eleven years gone by, Harry.  ’Twas glancing, as might be the wing of a thrush, so ’twas.

Harry.  Well, ’tis as the frost might lie on a dead leaf now, May, that it be.

May.  And the colour on me was as a rose, and my limbs was straight.  ’Twas fleet like a rabbit as I could get about, the days that was then, Harry.

Harry.  ’Tis a poor old bent woman as you be now, May.

May.  Ah, Death have been tapping on the door of my body this long while, but, please God, I can hold me with the best of them yet, Harry, and that I can.  Victuals to th’ inside of I and a bit of clothing to my bones, with summat to quiet this cough as doubles of I up.  Why, there, Harry, you won’t know as ’tis me when I’ve been to home a day or two—­or may be as ’twill take a week.

Harry.  I count ’twill take a rare lot of victuals afore you be set up as you once was, May.

May.  Look you in my eyes, Harry.  They may not know me up at home by the hair, which is different to what ’twas, or by the form of me, which be got poor and nesh like.  But in the eye there don’t come never no change.  So look you at they, Harry, and tell I how it do appear to you.

Harry.  There be darkness lying atween you and me, May.

May.  Then come you close to I, Harry, and look well into they.

Harry.  Them be set open wonderful wide and ’tis as though a heat comed out from they.  ’Tis not anyone as might care much for to look into the eyes what you’ve got.

May. [With despondence.] Maybe then, as them’ll not know as ’tis me, Harry Moss.

Harry.  I count as they’ll be hard put to, and that’s the truth.

May.  The note of me be changed, too, with this cold what I have, and the breath of me so short, but ’twon’t be long, I count, afore they sees who ‘tis.  Though all be changed to th’ eye like, there’ll be summat in me as’ll tell they.  And ’tis not a thing of shape, nor of colour as’ll speak for I—­But ’tis summat what do come straight out of the hearts of we and do say better words for we nor what the looks nor tongues of us might tell.  You mind me, Harry, there’s that which will come out of me as’ll bring they to know who ’tis.

Harry.  Ah, I reckon as you’ll not let them bide till they does.

May.  And when they do know, and when they sees who ’tis, I count as they’ll be good to me, I count they will.  I did used to think as Steve, he was a hard one, and th’ old woman what’s his mother, hard too—­And that it did please him for to keep a rein on me like, but I sees thing different now.

Harry.  Ah, ’tis one thing to see by candle and another by day.