The cart lumbered on and on—along the rough heath road that undulated like the waves of a stormy sea—down the steep hill and across the ford of the Derwent, where the waters, swollen with a flood in the uplands, touched the horses’ bellies and wet the straw near the door. Then through the long stretch of woodland, and up the Lydgate lane to the village.

Afront the ‘Bold Rodney’ the passengers alighted. A round-shouldered gaffer with a bright, kindly face helped the spinster down the steps and swung her cow-hair trunk over his back.

‘Yo’re lookin’ faint, Sarah,’ he said, ‘an’ I dunna wonder. Et’ld try yo’ sorely bein’ wi’ him at th’ last. By jowks, I hev bin lonesome wi’aat yo’—et seems a year o’ Sundays sin’ yo’ went away. Yo’ll soon be reet, tho’. I stepped across to th’ house after tea, an’ I dusted all an’ leeted th’ fire an’ set th’ kettle on, an’ then took th’ cat an’ laid her i’ th’ chair. Yo’ll be ready for yo’r supper?’

She caught his arm, for her knees were giving way.

‘I canna eat owt—I shanna want onything else to eat or drink,’ she groaned. ‘O Dave, th’ end o’ th’ world’s coomin’ to-neet!’

He gave such a start that the strap of the trunk loosened and it fell heavily to the ground. The intensity of her manner and his knowledge of her truthfulness brought instant conviction.

‘An’ all them ’ams i’ pickle, an’ th’ owd mare due to foal to-morrow!’ he lamented.

‘Dunna bother abaat such things,’ she whimpered.

‘Theer’s weightier matters i’ hond. Coom indoors, an’ I’ll tell yo’ all abaat et. Et’s no use frightin’ other fowk; we mun beer et oursens.’

He followed to the house-place and set the trunk on the dresser, and stood tremblingly waiting for her to disburden herself of the fatal news. She untied the strings of her bonnet, and unfastened the glossy buttons of the bertha.

‘Et were th’ neet after Jake’s buryin’,’ she began, hurriedly. ‘I’d gone to th’ market-place for a change, for th’ house were that stiflin’, an’ I wanted to be whöam again, but Jane said I mun stop another day. An’ theer were a man preachin’ on th’ steps o’ th’ cross—an aged, venerable man like th’ picture o’ Is-yah i’ th’ Bible.’

She paused for breath. ‘An’ what did he tell yo’?’ Dave stammered.

‘He said as he’d med it up aat o’ th’ proffercies i’ th’ Owd Testament an’ th’ Revelations i’ th’ New as th’ world were doomed. But we were to hev a sign gi’en—a breet leet i’ th’ sky at midnight—a leet sim’lar to th’ roary-boary-ailis as cem last neet, an’ twenty-four hours after that everything ’ld hap as he foretold. Th’ dëad’ll rise. Eh dear! eh dear!’

She began to sob violently; Dave put his arm around her waist.

‘Wench,’ he said, with much fervour, ‘dunna fret. Yo’ve done nowt to be ’shamed o’, an’ no more hev I, an’ ef we mun die, well, we mun. Hark to th’ kettle boilin’; theer’s buttered cake i’ th’ oven. Surely theer ’s no call for us to go wi’ empty bellies. An’ for th’ Lord’s sake dunna let’s mention what ’s coomin’ till we’ve doon eatin’.’

So they partook of a comfortable meal, and when it was finished, Sarah washed the cups and dishes and replaced them on the rack.