Joyce did not wait for a reply. ’No,’ she went on, ’’twere you as cared for her and did iverything for her, as you’ve a cared for and done iverything for me. But me you think on just now and then, and her you’ll be thinking on night and day, I know that very well. It be natural, and I say nort against it. And how be’t wi’ her I wonder. Did her tell you afore her left how good you’d been, and how her’d niver niver forget what you’d a done for her?’ ’No, Joyce.’ ’Didn’t her then look you in the face as I do now, and if her didn’t say it in words, let you see in her eyes that her thought and felt it?’ ’No, she did not look at me at all.’ ’See there now!’ exclaimed Joyce. ’I be nort but a poor savage, but I be better nor her. I know what be right and vitty (fitting)—and her don’t.’ ’Of course you know what is right, with the guidance of wooddoves.’ ’It were the raven, not the wooddoo,’ said Joyce, eagerly. ’The wooddoo told me wrong. The wooddoo sed "Tak two, Joyce, tak two." But that’s no count. It’ll come right wi’ Whiteface and you in the end. Her’ll find them folk of hers not like you, always a thinking and caring for her, and then her’ll remember you and think on you, just as I do lying here. Be you a going?’ Herring had risen from his knee as if to leave. ’Stay a bit longer,’ pleaded Joyce. ’Do’y know what it be after it hev been raining all day, and cold and wisht, out comes the sun afore he goes down, and the clouds roll away, and Dartmoor seems to be all alight, and then for the glory and the beauty and the warmth you forget all the time o’ cold and darkness and rain? It be so wi’ me. Here I lies and I sees none but vaither, and her grumbles becos I can’t work, and when vaither bain’t here I sees nobody, and it be wisht, I reckon, till you comes; and then I be that full o’ gladness and joy I remember no more the time o’ loneness and pain and trouble. You’ll bide a bit longer, won’t’y?’ ’I really cannot stay, Joyce, with the best will to pleasure you, I cannot.’ The demonstrative admiration and affection of the poor creature confounded and distressed him. ’I’ve more to tell’y,’ Joyce continued. ’I’ve that to tell’y which be most partikler. Do’y know what vaither did to make mother lie quiet? He gived her some’ut. But her bain’t no more a child to be amused wi’ toys like them. May be for a night or two her sat and turned ’em over and was kept quiet wi’ looking at ’em. But it bain’t the likes o’ them as will make mother still and sleep o’ nights, instead of rooting about in the earth under the table like a mole.’ ’What does she want, Joyce?’