"'But I laugh an' play,' she said, 'the whole o' the day, such a nartless life is mine, ha, ha!' which wasn' none of it true, except about the drink, but you could see she only done it to make 'erself pleasant. An' then she told us ow' when they rang a bell somebody was goin' to put Mortimer to death, an' 'ow she stopped that by climbin' up to the bell and 'angin' on to the clapper. Then in came Mortimer an' sang a song with 'er--as well 'e might--about 'is true love 'avin' 'is 'eart an' 'is 'avin' 'ers, an' everyone clappin' an' stampin' an' ancorein' in the best of tempers. Well, an' what does the man do after an interval o' five minutes, but dress hisself up in black an' call 'er names for 'avin' married his uncle? This was too much for the back seats, an' some o' them told 'im to go 'ome an' boil 'is 'ead. But it 'ad no effect; for he only got worse, till he ended up by blackin' 'is face an' smotherin' 'er with a pillow for something quite different. After that he got better, an' they ended up by playin' a thing that made everybody laugh. I didn' 'ear it, but took a walk outside to blow off steam, an' only came back just as the fuss began about the carriages. Fact is, missy, I can't abear to see a woman used abuseful." "That's because you 're in love," said Tilda. "But, if you'll listen to me, women ain't always what you take 'em for." "Ain't they?" he queried. "I'd be sorry to believe that; though 'twould be 'elpful, I don't mind tellin' you." "I've known cases--that is, if you _want_ to be cured--" "I do, an' I don't," he groaned. But it was clear that in the main he did not; for he changed the subject hastily. "See 'ere, would you mind takin' 'old o' the book an' checkin' while I counts out the money. Total takin's--four, three, three--less 'ire of 'all, four-an'-six--" "I can read figures an' print," owned Tilda, "but 'andwriting's too much for me; an' yours, I dare say, isn' none o' the best." "I've improved it a lot at the night school. But what is it puzzlin' you?" he asked, looking up as he counted. She held out the book, but not as he had handed it. The light breeze had blown over two or three of its leaves, covering the page of accounts. "Oh, _that?_" he stammered, and a blush spread to his ears. "I didn' mean you to see--" "What is it?" "Well--it's potery, if you must know. Leastways it's meant to be potery. I make it sometimes." "Why?" "To relieve my feelin's." "'Pears to me your feelin's want a deal o' relievin', one way an' another. Read me some." "You're sure you won't laugh?" "Bless the man! 'Ow can I tell till I've 'eard it? Is it meant to be funny?" "No." "Well, then, I'm not likely to laugh. It don't come easy to me, any'ow: I seen too many clowns." She handed him the book. He chose a poem, conquered his diffidence, and began-- "Stratford-on-Avon, Stratford-on-Avon-- My heart is full of woe: Formerly, once upon a time It was not ever so."