"
"I caan't cry for her--my tears be dried at the roots o' my eyes. I be
down-danted to the edge o' my awn graave. If my man wasn't gone daft
hisself, I reckon I should a gone. Come in--come in. Joan an' Tom dead in a
night, an' the faither of 'em worse than dead. I shall knaw it is so
bimebye. 'Tis awnly vain words yet. Iss, you'd best to see en now you'm
here. He may knaw 'e or he may not. He sits craakin' beside the fire, full
o' wild, mad, awful words. Doctor sez theer ban't no bettering of it. But
he may live years an' years, though 'tedn' likely. Tell en as Joan's dead.
Theer edn' no call to be afeared. He's grawed quite calm--a poor droolin'
gaby."
Uncle Chirgwin approached Gray Michael and the fisherman held out his hand
and smiled.
"'Tis farmer Chirgwin, to be sure. An' how is it with 'e, uncle?"
"Bad, bad, Tregenza. Your lil darter, your Joan, be dead--drownded in the
flood, poor sweet lamb."
"You'm wrong, my son. Joan's bin dead these years 'pon years. She was
damned afore 'er mother conceived her. Hell-meat in the womb. But the 'Lard
is King,' you mind. Joan--iss fay, her mother was a Hittite--a lioness o'
the Hittites, an' the mother's sins be visited 'pon the childern, 'cordin'
to the dark ways o' the livin' God."
"Doan't 'e say it, Michael! She died lovin' Christ. Be sure o' that."
The other laughed loudly, and burst into mindless profanity and obscenity.
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