But his God's mine
anyways, an' I'm not afeared o' what I done, nor 'shamed to look folks in
the faace. That's how 'tis, Uncle Thomas. 'Tis Nature, you mind, an' I be
Nature's cheel no--wi' no faither nor mother but her."
The old man was snuffling, and a tear or two rolled down his red face,
gathered the damp already there and fell. He groaned to himself, then
brought forth a big, red pocket-handkerchief, and wept outright, while Joan
stood silently regarding him.
"I'd rather a met death than this; I'd rather a knawn you was coffined."
"Oh, if I could awnly 'splain!" she cried, frantically; "if I awnly could
find his words 'pon my tongue, but I caan't. They be hid down deep in me,
an' by them I lives from day to day; but how can I make others see same as
I see? I awnly brings sorrer 'pon sorrer now. Theer's nothin' left but him.
If you could a heard Mister Jan! You would understand, wi' your warm heart,
but I caan't make 'e; I've no terrible, braave, butivul words. I'll gaw my
ways then. If any sawl had tawld me as I'd ever bring tears down your faace
I'd never b'lieved 'em--never; but so I have, an' that's bitterness to me."
He took her by the hand and pressed it, then put his arm round her and
kissed her. His white bristles hurt, but Joan rejoiced exceedingly, and now
it was her turn to shed tears.
"He'll come back--he'm a true man," she sobbed; "theer ban't the likes o'
Mister Jan in Carnwall, an'--an' if you knawed en, you'd say no less.
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