If us could send en a pound o' charity, I doubt he'd be better for't."
"Faither's a holy man, whatever else he be," said Tom stoutly. "He doan't
want for no good qualities like, 'cause what he doan't knaw 'bout God edn'
worth knawin'."
Mary laughed. It was a feat she seldom performed, and the sound of her
amusement lacked joy.
"Well, us won't argue 'bout en. You'm right to say that. Be the basket too
heavy for 'e?"
"No! not likely. Have 'e ever seed my forearm, Polly?"
"Never. I will another time. Best be gwaine, else you'll be late for
chapel."
So Tom marched off, and Mary, returning to the house, heard of Joan's
letter.
The old gusts of misery, sorrow, indignation, rose in her heart again then,
but faintly, like the dying flutter of winds that have blown themselves
out. She tried to find a way of bringing comfort to her cousin, but failed.
Joan had retired and refused consolation.
The glory of splendid summer hours passed away; the long twilight sank to
darkness; the opal lights in the west at last died under the silver of the
moon. And then, like a child weary with crying, Joan slept, while Mary,
creeping a third time to see and speak with her, departed silently. But she
did not sleep; and her wakefulness was fortunate, for long after eleven
o'clock came a noisy summons at the outer door. Looking from her room which
faced the front of the house, the woman saw Tom with his full basket
standing clearly defined below.
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