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Well, well, a was a good man, was Anthony Butter; and if a was a bit puffed up with ‘s own importance, a’s charity ne’er got in a like condition that it did not bring forth some kind act.

Well, th’ months swung round, and ’twas nigh to Martlemas in that same year, and one day as I sat i’ th’ forge door, a-swearing roundly to myself concerning my lame arm, and how that ‘twould not mend, up comes galloping a man, like one distraught, and a child on th’ saddle afore him, and a flings himself down with th’ child in ‘s arms (making no shift whate’er to hold th’ horse, which gallops on with th’ reins swinging), and a cries out, a-setting of th’ child on my knee–a cries out,

“For God’s sake, help me! My child hath been bit by a mad dog! Help me in some way, for th’ love of God!”

And I saw that ’twas Robert Hacket that crouched and quivered at my knee like a hurt hound, and th’ child as like to him as one leaf on a tree is to th’ other. But ere I could do or say aught, comes that lass o’ mine, and ups with th’ babe in her arms, and he roaring as lustily as any bull-calf with th’ wound in ‘s little brown arm, and she sees where the beast hath bitten him. Then sets she him down again on my lap, and runs and fetches a bar o’ iron and heats it i’ th’ forge till ’tis white-hot, and all th’ time th’ poor father a-sobbing, and kissing of th’ babe, and calling on me to help him, like as though I were God Almighty. And while he was so doing, and the babe like to burst with weeping, and I gone mad with not knowing what to be at, comes that wench, comrade, and jerks up th’ babe, and sets th’ white-hot metal in ‘s soft flesh.

Ay, comrade, a did, and a held it there till where th’ dog’s fangs had been was burned as black as th’ anvil. And then, when ’tis done, and th’ babe again upon ‘s feet, and we two for praising and blessing o’ her, down drops she all in a heap on th’ floor atween us, like a hawk that hath been smitten in mid-heaven. Then ’twas, comrade, that th’ babe was left to endure his pain as best he might; never thought more did ‘s father give him that day; but he runs and lifts th’ lass in ‘s strong arms, and bears her out into th’ fresh air, and he calls her his “dear,” and his “own,” and “his life,” and his “Keren,” till, had ‘t not been for my lass’s coming back to life, I would ‘a’ struck him on th’ mouth for a-speaking so unto her, and he th’ husband o’ another woman.

But no sooner opes she her eyes than he hath both her hands hid in one o’ his, and close against his breast, and she lying back in ‘s arms as though she were any chrisom child, and her big eyes wide on his, and he saith to her,

“Lass! lass!” saith he, “I ha’ come to marry thee, an thou wilt have me,” quoth he. “I ha’ come to marry thee; and may God bless thee for saving th’ child!”

Then did I understand; but she saith, with her great eyes not moving–saith she–only one word–“Ruth?” saith she, even so, once, low like that–“Ruth?”

“Ay, lass, I know,” he saith unto her. “I know,” he saith. “But all’s well with Ruth. Ruth is in heaven.”

Then saith she, while a light leaps out o’ her tearful eyes, like as when the sun doth shine suddenly through April rain–saith she, as she were breathing her life into th’ words,

“Methinks I be there too.”

And also did I understand her, how that she meant that to be lying in th’ arms o’ him she loved, after all those weary years, was like being in heaven; but he questions her.

“How, lass?” saith he. “Where dost thou think thou art? Thou art in thy true love’s arms,” saith he.

“Ay, there is heaven,” she saith.

And I stole away to get th’ babe some kickshaws i’ th’ village, that they twain might be alone together.

Well, well, all that was two year ago, comrade–two year ago; and now that lass o’ mine hath a babe o’ her own, and as valiant a rogue as ever bellowed. Thou must come and sup with us to-night. Na, na, I’ll take no refusal–dost hear? I will not. And a word o’ persuasion i’ thy ear, comrade: Mistress Lemon hath been dead this twelvemonth, comrade. Ah ha! Wilt a-come the now? That’s well. And thou shalt hear that lass o’ mine troll thee “Jog on, jog on,” and “Mistress mine, where art thou roaming?” and “Listen, Robin, while I woo.” Come, comrade, come. But stay; let’s crack another drink together ere we go. Joel! What there! Joel, I say! Another quart o’ sack for Master Turnip!