Harry.  And yet, look you here, you be brought down terrible low, May.

May.  The fine looks of a woman be as grass, Harry, and in the heat of the day they do wither and die.  And that what has once been a grand flower in the hand of a man is dropped upon the ground and spat upon, maybe.  So ’twas with I.

[She bows her head on her knees, and for a moment is shaken with sudden grief.

Harry.  Don’t you take on so, May.  Look you here, you be comed to the end of your journeying this day, and that you be.

May. [Raising her head.] Ah, ’tis so, ’tis so.  And ’tis rare glad as them’ll be to see I once again.  Steve, he’s a hard man, but a good one—­And I’ll tell you this, Harry Moss, he’ll never take up with no woman what’s not me—­and that he won’t—­I never knowed him much as look on one, times past; and ’twill be the same as ever now, I reckon.  And little Dorry, ’twill be fine for her to get her mammy back, I warrant—­so ’twill.

[A slight pause.

May.  Th’ old woman—­well—­I shan’t take it amiss if her should be dead, like.  Her was always a smartish old vixen to I, that her was, and her did rub it in powerful hard as Steve was above I in his station and that.  God rest the bones of she, for I count her’ll have been lying in the churchyard a good few years by now.  But I bain’t one to bear malice, and if so be as her’s above ground, ’tis a rare poor old wretch with no poison to the tongue of she, as her’ll be this day—­so ’tis.

Harry.  Look you here—­the snow’s begun to fall and ’tis night.  Get up and go in to them all yonder.  ’Tis thick dark now and there be no one on the road to see you as you do go.

May.  Help I to get off the ground then, Harry, for the limbs of me be powerful weak.

Harry. [Lifting her up.] The feel of your body be as burning wood, May.

May. [Standing up.] Put me against the stile, Harry, and then let I bide alone.

Harry.  Do you let me go over the field along of you, May, just to the door.

May.  No, no, Harry, get you off to the town and leave me to bide here a while in the quiet of my thoughts.  ’Tis of little Dorry, and of how pleased her’ll be to see her mammy once again, as I be thinking.  But you, Harry Moss, as han’t got no home to go to, nor fireside, nor victuals, you set off towards the town.  And go you quick.

Harry.  There’s summat in me what doesn’t care about leaving you so, May.

May.  And if ever you should pass this way come spring-time, Harry, when the bloom is white on the trees, and the lambs in the meadows, come you up to the house yonder, and may be as I’ll be able to give you summat to keep in remembrance of me.  For to-day, ’tis empty-handed as I be.

Harry.  I don’t want nothing from you, May, I don’t.