“I didn’t really mean it, neighbours,” faltered Ann, looking piteously round. “I was a bit vexed at the time, an’ when the lads did start a-floutin’ me wi’ stones an’ that, and a-callin’ ill names and a-wishin’ me bad luck, I just says back to ’em, quick like, ‘Bad luck, yourself!’ an’ ’twasn’t very like they’d have good luck; but I didn’t mean it in my heart--not me, indeed. The Lard sees I hadn’t no thought o’ really wishin’ evil to nobody--that I hadn’t, neighbours. You don’t believe I did have, do ’ee now, Mrs. Whittle?”--turning in despair to the little woman on her right--“you, what has knowed I sich a many year--you did ought to know I wouldn’t wish no harm to nobody.” Mrs. Whittle looked sheepish and uncomfortable. Despite the sinister aspect of things, her heart melted at her old crony’s appeal. “Why, I scarce can believe it,” she was beginning, when Mrs. Biles struck in:-- “Deny it if you can, Ann Kerley. There’s the ’taters blighted, an’ there’s the bwoy took bad, an’ it’s you what wished ’em ill-luck. What can ye make o’ that, Mrs. Whittle? Ye’ll ’low ’tis strange.” Mrs. Whittle shook her head dubiously, and Ann, deprived, as she thought, of her only ally, threw her apron over her head, and wept behind it. “Don’t ’ee take on, Mrs. Kerley, that’s a dear,” said Mrs. Whittle, softening once more. “’Twas maybe a chance thing. You did say them words wi’out thinkin’ an’ they did come true to be a warnin’ to ’ee. We do all do wrong sometimes; this ’ere did ought to be a warnin’ to all on us.” “I’m sure ’twill be a lesson to I,” sobbed Ann inarticulately. “So long as I do live I’ll never say such things again. ’Twas very ill-done o’ me to ha’ spoke wi’out thought, sich a wold ’ooman as I be, an’ so near my end an’ all, an’ the Lard has chastised I. I can’t do more nor say I’m sorry, an’ I hope the A’mighty ’ull forgive me.” “There, the ’ooman can’t say no fairer nor that,” said Mrs. Whittle, looking round appealingly; “she can’t do more nor repent.” “Oh, if she do repent it’ll be well enough,” said Mrs. Biles darkly. “’Tis to be hoped as she do repent. But by all accounts ’tis easier for to begin that kind o’ work nor to leave it off again.” She turned on her heel with this parting innuendo, and, taking up her full bucket, walked away. The others followed suit, and Ann, left alone, sobbed on for a moment or two with a feeling akin to despair, and then, drawing down her apron, wiped her eyes with it sadly, wound up her pail from the depths where it had lain forgotten, and made her way homewards. For days afterwards she was ashamed to show her face, and rose at extraordinarily early hours in order to procure her supply of water, and crept out of her own quarters at dusk to make her necessary purchases.