[May gets up and crosses the room; she takes the bottle off the shelf where she has just perceived it, and also two glasses; she fills one and hands it to her mother.

Vashti. [Stretching out her hand.] ’Tis rare dry and parched as I be, now I comes to think on it, May.

May.  That’s right—­drink your fill, Mother.

Vashti.  ’Tis pleasant for I to see you mistressing it here again,
May.

May.  Ah, ’tis my own drink and all, come to that.

Vashti.  So ’tis.  And the tea what she gived me was but ditch water.  I seed her spoon it in the pot, and ’twas not above a half spoon as her did put in for I, th’ old badger.  My eye was on she, though, and her’ll have it cast up at she when the last day shall come and the trumpet sound and all flesh stand quailing, and me and mine looking on at her as is brought to judgment.  How will it be then, you old sinner, says I.

May. [Re-filling the glass.] Take and drink this little drop more, mother.

[Vashti drinks and then leans back in her chair again with half closed eyes.

May. [Putting away the bottle and glasses.] Her’ll sleep very like, now.  And when her wakes, I take it ’twill appear as though she’d been and dreamt summat.

Vashti.  Do you sit a-nigh me, May.  The night be a wild one.  I would not have you be on the roads.

May. [Sitting down beside her.] O, the roads be fine on nights when the tempest moves in the trees above and the rain falls into the mouth of you and lies with a good taste on your tongue.  And you goes quick on through it till you comes to where the lights do blink, and ’tis a large town and there be folk moving this way and that and the music playing, and great fowls and horses what’s got clocks to the inside of they, a-stirring them up for to run, and girls and men a-riding on them—­And the booths with red sugar and white, all lit and animals that’s wild a-roaring and a-biting in the tents—­And girls what’s dancing, standing there in satin gowns all over gold and silver—­And you walks to and fro in it all and ’tis good to be there and free—­And ’tis better to be in such places and to come and to go where you have a mind than to be cooped in here, with th’ old woman and all—­’Tis a fine life as you lives on the roads—­and ’tis a better one nor this, I can tell you, Mother.

Vashti. [Who has gradually been falling into sleep.] I count ’tis so.  ’Tis prime in the freshening of the day.  I count I’ll go along of you, come morning.

May.  That’s it, Mother, that’s it.  Us’ll take a bit of sleep afore we sets off, won’t us?  And when morning comes, us’ll open the door and go out.

Vashti.  That’s it, when ’tis day.

[Her head falls to one side of the chair and she is presently asleep.

[May watches her for some moments.  Then she gets up softly and wraps her shawl round her.  The window shews signs of a gray light outside, may goes quietly towards the outer door.  As she reaches it, Dorry comes into the room from the staircase.