Death's my deserts, same as Ann Garth;
an' she got it; an' I doan't care how soon I do. None wants me no more, nor
what I'm breedin' neither. I'd die now, an' smilin', if 'tweern't for
arterwards."
"Cuss the letter!" said Uncle Chirgwin, getting red in the face. "Cuss it,
I says, for gwaine an' turnin' up just this day! A fortnight later you
could 'a' looked on it wi' quiet mind an' knawed wheer to turn; to-day's
it's just bin an' undone what was done. Not but what 'tis as butivul a
letter as ever comed off the sea; but if theer'd awnly been time to
'stablish 'e 'fore it comed! Now you've turned your back 'pon the Household
o' Faith just as arms was being stretched out that lovin'."
"Faith won't undo what I've done, nor yet make my wickedness fall lighter
for Joe. Yes, 'twas wicked, wicked, wicked. I knaw it now."
Mary and Tom came in from different directions about this time. The latter
had regaled himself with a peep at "auld bull," heard the terrific snorting
of his nostrils and observed how he bellowed mightily at durance on such an
afternoon. Tea being finished, the boy started homeward with a basket of
fresh eggs and butter, a pound of cream and some early apples of a sort
used for cider, but yet equal to the making of a pie.
"As for the butter, 'tis Joan's churnin'," said Mary, "but you'd best not
to tell your faither that, else, so like's not, he'll pitch it into the
sea.
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