"You'd best let a
two-three of us stay the night and coax 'ee from frettin'. It's bad
for the system, and you so soon over child-birth."
Lovey opened her eyes wide on them.
"Lord's sake!" she said, "you don't reckon I'm goin' to sit down
under this? What?--and him the beautifullest, straightest cheeld
that ever was in Gwithian Parish! Go'st thy ways home, every wan.
Piskies steal my cheeld an' Dan'l's, would they? I'll pisky 'em!"
She showed them forth--"put them to doors" as we say in the Duchy--
every one, the Priest included. She would have none of their
consolation.
"You mean it kindly, naybors, I don't say; but tiddn' what I happen
to want. I wants my cheeld back; an' I'll _have'n_ back, what's
more!"
They went their ways, agreeing that the woman was doited. Lovey
closed the door upon them, bolted it, and sat for hours staring at
the empty cradle. Through the unglazed window she could see the
stars; and when these told her that midnight was near, she put on her
shawl again, drew the bolt, and fared forth over the towans.
At first the stars guided her, and the slant of the night-wind on her
face; but by and by, in a dip between the hills, she spied her mark
and steered for it.
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