Steve.  Was there aught as you could do for yonder poor thing?

Jane.  Poor thing, indeed!  A good-for-nothing roadster what’s been and got herself full of the drink, and that’s what’s the matter with she.  See there, how she do lie, snoring asleep under the shawl of her; and not a word nor sound have I got out of she since giving her the drop of tea a while back.

Steve.  Well, well—­she won’t do us no harm where she do bide.  Leave her in the warm till ’tis daylight, then let her go her way.

Jane.  She and Gran’ be about right company one for t’other, I’m thinking.

Steve.  Ah, that they be.  Let them sleep it off and you get up to bed, Mother.

Jane.  That I will, Steve.  Be you a-going to see Annie safe to home?

Annie.  Do you bide here, Steve, and let me run back—­’tis but a step—­and I don’t like for you to come out into the snow again.

Steve.  I’m coming along of you, Annie.  Get off to bed, Mother.  I’ll be back to lock up and all that in less nor ten minutes.

Jane.  All right, Steve, and do you cast an eye around to see as I han’t left nothing out as might get took away, for ’tis poor work leaving the kitchen to roadsters and gipsies and the like.

[Jane lights a candle and goes upstairs.  Steve takes ANNIE’S hand and they go together towards the outer door.  As they pass to the other side of the curtain which is drawn across the room, may suddenly rears herself up on the settle, throwing back her shawl, and she leans forward, listening intently.

Steve.  To-morrow night, Annie!

Annie.  There’ll be no turning out into the snow for us both, Steve.

Steve.  You’ll bide here, Annie, and ’tis more gladness than I can rightly think on, that ’tis.

Annie.  Steve!

Steve.  Well, Annie.

Annie.  There’s summat what’s been clouding you a bit this night. 
You didn’t know as how I’d seen it, but ’twas so.

Steve.  Why, Annie, I didn’t think as how you’d take notice as I was different from ordinary.

Annie.  But I did, Steve.  And at the dancing there was summat in the looks of you which put me in mind of a thing what’s hurted.  Steve, I couldn’t abide for to see you stand so sad with the music going on and all.  So I told you as I’d the headache.

Steve.  O Annie, ’twas thoughts as was too heavy for me, and I couldn’t seem to get them pushed aside, like.

Annie.  How’d it be if you was to tell me, Steve.

Steve.  I don’t much care for to, Annie.  But ’twas thoughts what comed out of the time gone by, as may be I’d been a bit too hard with—­with her as was Dorry’s mother.

Annie.  O, I’m sure, from all I hear, as she had nothing to grumble at, Steve.