’Dear boy, you mustn’t.’ ’But I mean to do.’ ’What was that funny sort of noise I heard?’ ’Where?’ ’In the hedge; a sort of sob or coo. Listen. It’s gone.’ ’It may have been a bird.’ Jim tossed a stone but mother never stirred. She hugged the hedgerow, choking down her pain, While the hot tears were blinding in her brain. The two passed on, the withered woman rose, For many minutes she could only shake, Staring ahead with trembling little ’Oh’s,’ The noise a very frightened child might make. ’O God, dear God, don’t let the woman take My little son, God, not my little Jim. O God, I’ll have to starve if I lose him.’ So back she trembled, nodding with her head, Laughing and trembling in the bursts of tears, Her ditch-filled boots both squelching in the tread, Her shopping-bonnet sagging to her ears, Her heart too dumb with brokenness for fears. The nightmare whickering with the laugh of death Could not have added terror to her breath. She reached the house, and: ’I’m all right,’ said she, ’I’ll just take off my things; but I’m all right, ’I’d be all right with just a cup of tea, If I could only get this grate to light, The paper’s damp and Jimmy’s late to-night; "Belov’d, if I was rich," was what he said, O Jim, I wish that God would kill me dead.’ While she was blinking at the unlit grate, Scratching the moistened match-heads off the wood, She heard Jim coming, so she reached his plate, And forked the over-frizzled scraps of food. ’You’re late,’ she said, ’and this yer isn’t good, Whatever makes you come in late like this?’ ’I’ve been to Plaister’s End, that’s how it is.’ ’You’ve been to Plaister’s End?’ ’Yes.’ ’I’ve been staying For money for the shopping ever so. Down here we can’t get victuals without paying, There’s no trust down the Bye Street, as you know, And now it’s dark and it’s too late to go. You’ve been to Plaister’s End. What took you there?’ ’The lady who was with us at the fair.’ ’The lady, eh? The lady?’ ’Yes, the lady.’ ’You’ve been to see her?’ ’Yes.’ ’What happened then?’ ’I saw her.’ ’Yes. And what filth did she trade ye? Or d’you expect your locket back agen? I know the rotten ways of whores with men. What did it cost ye?’ ’What did what cost?’ ’It. Your devil’s penny for the devil’s bit.’ ’I don’t know what you mean.’ ’Jimmy, my own. Don’t lie to mother, boy, for mother knows. I know you and that lady to the bone, And she’s a whore, that thing you call a rose, A whore who takes whatever male thing goes; A harlot with the devil’s skill to tell The special key of each man’s door to hell.’ ’She’s not. She’s nothing of the kind, I tell’ee.’ ’You can’t tell women like a woman can; A beggar tells a lie to fill his belly, A strumpet tells a lie to win a man, Women were liars since the world began; And she’s a liar, branded in the eyes, A rotten liar, who inspires lies.’