Steve.  I reckon ’twould be so—­so ’twould.  But come you in and give yourself a warm; and Mother, what do you say to getting us a glass of cider all round afore we sets out to the dancing.

Jane.  What do you want to be taking drinks here for, when ’tis free as you’ll get them up at the school?

Steve.  Just a drop for to warm we through.  Here, I’ll fetch it right away.

Jane.  No, you don’t.  I’ll have no one meddling in the pantry save it’s myself.  Dorry, give me that there jug.

Dorry. [Taking a jug from the dresser.] Here ’tis, Gran’ma, shall I light the candle?

Jane.  So long as you’ll hold the matches careful.

Annie.  Well—­’tis to be hoped as the weather’ll change afore morning.

Rose.  We shall want a bit of sunshine for the bride.

George.  That us shall, but it don’t look much as though we should get it.

[Jane Browning and Dorry go out of the room.

Steve.  Sit you down, George, along of we.  ’Tis right pleased as I be for to see you here to-night.

George.  Well, Steve, I bain’t one for a lot of words but I be powerful glad to see you look as you does, and ’tis all joy as I wishes you and her what’s to be your wife, to-morrow.

Annie.  Thank you kindly, Mr. Davis.  I shall do my best for Steve, and a girl can’t do no more, can she?

Rose.  And so you’re going to church along of Steve, Mr. Davis?

George.  ’Tis as Steve do wish, but I be summat after a cow what has broke into the flower gardens, places where there be many folk got together and I among they.

Rose.  O, come, Mr. Davis!

George.  ’Tis with me as though t’were all hoof and horn as I was made of.  But Steve, he be more used to mixing up with the quality folks and such things, and he do know better nor I how to carry his self in parts when the ground be thick on them.

Annie.  Very likely ’tis a-shewing of them into their places of a Sunday and a-ringing of the bell and a-helping of the vicar along with the service, like, as has made Steve so easy.

Rosie.  But, bless you, Mr. Davis, you sees a good bit of the gentry, too, in your way, when you goes in to houses, as it might be the Squire’s for to put up a shelf, or mend a window, and I don’t know what.

George.  Ah, them caddling sort of jobs don’t much agree with I, Miss Rose.  And when I gets inside one of they great houses, where the maids do pad about in boots what you can’t hear, and do speak as though ’twere church and parson at his sermon, I can’t think of naught but how ’twill feel for to be out in the open again.  Why, bless you, I do scarce fetch my breath in one of they places from fear as there should be too much sound to it, and the noise of my own hammer do very near scare I into fits.