Vashti.  Going on the road I seed the eyes of they blinking as I did pass by.  “And may the light from out the thunder cloud fall upon you,” I says to them, “for ’tis a poor old woman as I be what has lost her child; and what’s that to you if so be as the shoes on her feet be broken or no?  ’Tis naked as the toes of you shall go, that hour when the days of this world shall be rolled by.  Ah, ’tis naked and set on the lake of burning fire as the hoofs of you shall run!”

May.  I could up and screech so that the house should ring with the sound of me, “I be your wife, Steve, comed back after these many years.  What’s this that you’ve got doing with another?” I could take hold on him and make him look into the eyes of I, yes, and th’ old woman, too.  “See here, your ‘dirty roadster,’ look well on to her.”  “Why, ’tis May.”  But the eyes of him would then be cast so that I should see no more than a house what has dead within, and the blind pulled down.  And I, what was thinking as there might be a light in the window!

Vashti.  “And you may holler,” I says to them, “you may holler till you be heard over the face of all the earth, but no one won’t take no account of you.”  And the lies of them which have turned into ropes of hempen shall come up and strangle they.  But me and my child shall pass by all fatted up and clothed, and with the last flick, afore the eyelids of they drop, they shall behold we, and, a-clapping of the teeth of them shall they repent them of their sins.  Too late, too late!  There ’tis.

May.  Too late!  There ’tis, I be comed home too late.

[She rises and takes up her shawl, wrapping it about her shoulders, and muttering.

May.  But I know a dark place full of water—­’Tis Simon’s pool they calls it—­And I warrant as any poor wretch might sleep yonder and be in quiet.

Vashti.  Be you a-going up to Steve now?

May.  No, I bain’t.  ’Tis out from here that I be going.  And back on to the road.

Vashti.  May, my pretty May, you’re never going for to leave I, what’s such a poor old woman and wronged cruel.  You step aloft and rouse up Steve.  He’ll never have you go upon the roads again once he do know as you’ve comed back.

May.  Steve!  What’s it to Steve whether the like of I do go or bide?  What be there in I for to quell the love of she which Steve’s got in him?  Dead leaves for new.  Ditch water for the clear spring.

Vashti.  Give him to drink of it, May.

May. [Looking upwards to the ceiling.] No, Steve.  Hark you here.  I bain’t a-going to do it.  I bain’t going to knock over the spoonful of sweet what you be carrying to your mouth.  You take and eat of it in quiet and get you filled with the honey.  ’Tain’t my way to snatch from no one so that the emptiness which I has in me shall be fed.  There, ’tis finished now, very nigh, and the sharpness done.  And, don’t you fear, Steve, as ever I’ll trouble you no more.