I caan't feel 'tis so yet. I caan't feel as he'm truly dead. An' yet 'twas
no lie, for I seed en, an' stood 'longside of en."
"God's Hand be everywheer in it. Think if I'd read poor Joan's letter an'
tawld 'e wheer the man's plaace of livin' was!"
"Iss, then I'd have slain en. 'Tis such lil things do mark out our paths. A
gert pichsher o' Joan he drawed--all done out so large as life; an' I found
it, an' it 'peared as if the dead was riz up again an' staring at me. If
'tis all the saame to you, Mary, us'll go an' look 'pon her graave now, for
I abbun seen it yet."
They walked in silence for some hundred yards along the lanes to Sancreed.
Then Noy spoke again.
"How be uncle?"
"Betwix' an' between. The trouble an' loss o' Joan aged en cruel, an' the
floods has brot things to a close pass. 'Twas the harder for en 'cause all
looked so more'n common healthy an' promisin' right up to the rain. But
he's got the faith as moves mountains; he do knaw that sorrer ban't sent
for nort."
"An' you? I wonder I'm bowldacious 'nough to look 'e in the faace, but
sorrer's not forgot me neither."
"'Tis a thing what awver-passes none. I've forgived 'e, Joe Noy, many a
long month past, an' I've prayed to God to lead 'e through this strait, an'
He have."
"'Tis main hard to knaw what road's the right wan, Mary."
"Iss fay, an' it is; an' harder yet to follow 'pon it when found.
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