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“Yo’ mought ha’ left me that!” she said. “Yo’ mought ha’ left it to me! There wur other women as would ha’ done yo’, there wur no other man on earth as would do me. Yo’ knowed what my life had been, an’ how it wur hand to hand betwixt other folk an’ me. Yo’ knowed how much I cared fur him an’ what he wur to me. Yo’ mought ha’ let us be. I nivver harmed yo’. I wouldna harm yo’ so sinful cruel now.”

“Wilt ta listen?” he asked, laboring as if for breath.

“Aye,” she answered him, “I’ll listen, fur tha conna hurt me worser. Th’ day fur that’s past an’ gone.”

“Well,” said he, “listen an I’ll try to tell yo’. I know it’s no use, but I mun say a word or two. Happen yo’ didna know I loved yo’ aw’ yore life–happen yo’ didna, but it’s true. When yo’ wur a little lass gatherin’ sea-weed on th’ sands I watched yo’ when I wurafeared to speak–afeared lest yo’d gi’ me a sharp answer, fur yo’ wur ready enow wi’ ’em, wench. I’ve watched yo’ fur hours when I wur a great lubberly lad, an’ when yo’ gettin’ to be a woman it wur th’ same thing. I watched yo’ an’ did yo’ many a turn as yo’ knowed nowt about. When yo’ wur searchin’ fur drift to keep up th’ fire after th’ owd mon deed an’ left yo’ alone, happen yo’ nivver guessed as it wur me as heaped little piles i’ th’ nooks o’ th’ rocks so as yo’d think ‘at th’ tide had left it theer–happen yo’ did n’t, but it wur true. I’ve stayed round the old house many a neet, feared summat mought harm yo’, an’ yo’ know yo’ niwer gave me a good word, Meg. An’ then Dan comn an’ he made way wi’ yo’ as he made way wi’ aw th’ rest–men an’ women an’ children. He niwer worked an’ waited as I did–he niwer thowt an’ prayed as I did; everything come easy wi’ him–everything allus did come easy wi’ him, an’ when I seed him so light-hearted an’ careless about what I wur cravin’ it run me daft an’ blind. Seemt like he couldna cling to it like I did an’ I begun to fight agen it, an’ when I heerd about that lass o’ Barnegats I towd yo’, an’ when I seen yo’ believed what I didna believe mysen, it run me dafter yet, an’ I put more to what he said, an’ held back some, an’ theer it wur an’ theer it stands, an’ if I’ve earnt a curse, lass, I’ve getten it, fur–fur I thowt yo’d been learnin’ to care fur me a bit sin’ we wur wed, an’ God knows I’ve tried to treat yo’ fair an’ kind i’ my poor way. It wurna Dan Morgan’s way, I know–his wur a better way than mine, th’ sun shone on him somehow–but I’ve done my best an’ truest sin’.”

“Yo’ve done yo’re worst,” she said. “Th’ worst yo’ could do wur to part us, an’ yo’ did it. If yo’d been half a mon yo’ wouldna ha’ been content wi’ a woman yo’d trapped with sayin’ ‘Aye,’ an’ who cared less for yo’ than she did fur th’ sand on th’ sea-shore. What’s what yo’ve done sin’ to what yo’ did afore? Yo’ conna wipe that out and yo’ conna mak’ me forget. I hate yo’, an’ th’ worse because I wur beginnin’ to be content a bit. I hate mysen. I ought to ha’ knowed”–wildly–“he would ha’ knowed whether I wur true or false, poor chap–he would ha’ knowed.”

She rocked herself to and fro for a minute, wringing her hands in a passion of anguish worse than any words, but a minute later she turned on him all at once.

“All’s o’er betwixt yo’ an’ me,” she said with fierce heat; “do yo’ know that? If yo’ wur half a mon yo’ would.”