STEVE. Well, well—she won’t do us no harm where she do bide. Leave her in the warm till ’tis daylight, then let her go her way. JANE. She and Gran’ be about right company one for t’other, I’m thinking. STEVE. Ah, that they be. Let them sleep it off and you get up to bed, Mother. JANE. That I will, Steve. Be you a-going to see Annie safe to home? ANNIE. Do you bide here, Steve, and let me run back—’tis but a step—and I don’t like for you to come out into the snow again. STEVE. I’m coming along of you, Annie. Get off to bed, Mother. I’ll be back to lock up and all that in less nor ten minutes. JANE. All right, Steve, and do you cast an eye around to see as I han’t left nothing out as might get took away, for ’tis poor work leaving the kitchen to roadsters and gipsies and the like. [JANE _lights a candle and goes upstairs_. STEVE _takes_ ANNIE’S _hand and they go together towards the outer door_. _As they pass to the other side of the curtain which is drawn across the room_, MAY _suddenly rears herself up on the settle_, _throwing back her shawl_, _and she leans forward_, _listening intently_. STEVE. To-morrow night, Annie! ANNIE. There’ll be no turning out into the snow for us both, Steve. STEVE. You’ll bide here, Annie, and ’tis more gladness than I can rightly think on, that ’tis. ANNIE. Steve! STEVE. Well, Annie. ANNIE. There’s summat what’s been clouding you a bit this night. You didn’t know as how I’d seen it, but ’twas so. STEVE. Why, Annie, I didn’t think as how you’d take notice as I was different from ordinary. ANNIE. But I did, Steve. And at the dancing there was summat in the looks of you which put me in mind of a thing what’s hurted. Steve, I couldn’t abide for to see you stand so sad with the music going on and all. So I told you as I’d the headache. STEVE. O Annie, ’twas thoughts as was too heavy for me, and I couldn’t seem to get them pushed aside, like. ANNIE. How’d it be if you was to tell me, Steve. STEVE. I don’t much care for to, Annie. But ’twas thoughts what comed out of the time gone by, as may be I’d been a bit too hard with—with her as was Dorry’s mother. ANNIE. O, I’m sure, from all I hear, as she had nothing to grumble at, Steve. STEVE. And there came a fearsome thought, too, Annie, as you might go the same way through not getting on comfortable with me, and me being so much older nor you, and such-like. Annie, I couldn’t bear for it to happen so, I could not. For I holds to having you aside of me always stronger nor I holds to anything else in the world, and I could not stand it if ’twas as I should lose you. ANNIE. There’s nothing in the world as could make you lose me, Steve. For, look you here, I don’t think as there’s a woman on the earth what’s got such a feeling as is in my heart this night, of quiet, Steve, and of gladness, because that you and me is to be wed and to live aside of one another till death do part us.