The likes o' you doan't know nort
'bout the grim side o' life or what it is to lose the glory o'
lovin'. But I doan't harbor no ill agin you no more."
"You'm good to hear, Polly, an' kind words is better'n food to me now. I'll
tell 'e 'bout myself bimebye. But I must speak to uncle fust. Things has
happened."
"Nothin' wrong wi' your folks?"
"I ain't got no folks no more. But I'll tell 'e so soon's I've tawld Uncle
Thomas."
"He'm in the croft somewheers. Better bide till dinner. Uncle'll be back by
then."
"I caan't, Mary--not till I've spoke wi' en. I'll gaw long down Green Lane,
then I shall meet en for sure. An' if a box o' mine comes by the omblibus,
'tis right."
"A box! Whatever is there in it, Joan?"
"All's I've gotten in the world--leastways nearly. Doan't ax me nothin'
now. You'll knaw as soon as need be."
Without waiting for more words Joan departed, hastened through the gate on
the inner wall of the farmyard and walked along the steep hillside by a
lane which wound muddily downward to the grasslands, under high hazel
hedges. The new leaves dripped showers at every gust of the wind, then a
gleam of wan sunlight brightened distant vistas of the way, while Joan
heard the patter of a hundred hoofs in the mud, the bleat of lambs, the
deeper answer of ewes, the barking of a shepherd's dog. Soon the cavalcade
came into view--a flock of sheep first, a black and white dog with a black
and white pup, which was learning his business, next, and Uncle Chirgwin
himself bringing up the rear.
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