"You don't talk enough to be very clever at it," she said. "'Tis the little, peart men talk best, like the small birds sing best. You gert big chaps croak like the crows--just now and again. You can't keep it up." "Very true, I'm sure. But I don't want to croak now, God knows. If I was to put it in shape of a prayer, 'twould come easy, for you'd be surprised how my words slip out then. It loosens the tongue something wonderful to ax God for anything. He helps." "You don't say your prayers out loud, however--else everybody to Ruddyford would hear 'em--with your gert voice." "No--I whisper 'em. But no man can pray to anybody but his Maker. So it's cruel difficult." "Who is it you'm fretting to speak to, then? Be you shamed to do it? Be it an uncomely thing?" "No, no--'tis a very every-day thing; and yet not that--'tis a---- Would I say anything to you that weren't comely?" "To me?" "To you--yes." "Whatever should you have to say to me?" "Things as I haven't got the language for. There's words--like 'marriage,' for instance--that be an awful mouthful to spit out. Worse than having a tooth drawed. Yet there's no other word for it." "And what's the hard word you can't bring yourself to say?" "Look here--listen. There are some things that I can say, and they'll do for a start. I'm a terrible poor man. I've only got fifty pound stored up, but it goodies and it will be fifty-four ten by next March. I get twenty-five shillings a week; and that's very tidy indeed for me. Yet I'm worth it--not to despise myself--and I've great hopes of getting up higher. You'll think I'm a very own-self man, to keep on about myself so much." "Not at all. 'Tis cruel interesting." "Very kind to say so." "Well, what next?" "Should you reckon that was a promising case, or maybe you don't?" "'Tis a very common state of things--save for the fifty-four pounds ten." "You'd reckon that was to the good, then?" "Every penny of it." "It took some saving, Sarah Jane." "I lay it did, Daniel Brendon." "And I'm putting by a nice bit every week now." "So you ought to be. You never know." There was silence between them, but the wind ceased not. Then she relented and made it easy for him. "I say you never know; because presently you'll be sure to see a girl that you'll like. No doubt you think not; but you will." "I have--I have!" She hardened her heart again. "Ah! So soon? Well, if I may give you advice, you lie low till that fifty's up in three figures. Then--very like she'll take 'e, if nobody better comes in the meantime." She looked at him and saw his face grow long and his jaw droop. Then she suddenly threw her arms round him. "You dear, great monster!" she said.