‘We’ve on’y got two more hours to live, Dave,’ she said, quietly. ‘If I could hev hed my way, I’ld hev chosen soom other time. Th’ “owd-man apples” is finer nor they’ve bin sin’ mother died, an’ theer’s that bacon o’ yo’rs wi’ none to eat et.’

‘Never bother,’ he said, despondently. ‘Et’ll be all th’ same soon. Let us sit an’ wait hond-i’-hond.’

They drew nearer the hearth and rested silently until the tall clock struck eleven. Then Sarah rose and moved her chair to the wall.

‘Lad,’ she said, ‘s’pose we go daan to th’ churchyard an’ wait theer. Yo’r fowk an’ mine are buried alongside, an’ et’ld seem more respectful ef we were theer when they cem up. I’ll tek a shawl to put under us.’

He agreed at once, and they went stealthily down the dark street and over the stile to the south side of the church. There they sat on the grass beside a square tombstone that was embellished with designs of cherubim, and death’s-heads, and hour-glasses. As time passed Sarah’s head sank to her lover’s shoulder. She was worn out with excitement and fatigue. In a few minutes she fell asleep.

Twelve chimed from the tower and Dave was filled with supreme terror. But no thunderclap came, nor did the graves show any signs of subterranean disturbance. He also began to grow drowsy and he leaned back against the stone, his face touching hers.

Dawn broke, a glorious red dawn, and soon the sunlight touched their eyelids. They awoke simultaneously, and after a moment of amazement, Sarah drew herself away, blushing like a young girl.

‘That fellow were a liar an’ a brute,’ she cried, angrily, ‘gettin’ two decent fowk to stop aat-o’-doors all neet. Whatever’ll Milton say ef et gets abaat? We mun steal whöam afore onybody’s stirrin’.’

When they entered her garden, they heard the whistling of an approaching ploughboy. Sarah tried to run along the narrow path, but stumbled over a projecting currant bough, and Dave was obliged to carry her indoors.

‘Ef we’ve bin seen aar character’s gone,’ she wailed. ‘Milton were e’er th’ evilest thinkin’ spot i’ th’ Peak!’

But her lover only laughed. ‘I fear theer’s nowt for us but to get wed at onct,’ he said. ‘Yo’ want someone to look after yo’. I’ll go an’ tell parson abaat th’ spurrin’s this morn. An’ now I mun go an’ see how th’ mare ’s gettin’ on.’

The Last Posset

The Yeld is a small, stuccoed farmstead, lying in a concave on the south slope of Milton Edge. Three or four fields surround the buildings; beyond, in every direction, runs the moor with its marshes and rocks and tumuli. A few spruce firs shelter the house from the east wind: the storms of two centuries have made them lop-sided and bent the trunks bow-shape, so that such as are nearest rest their tops on the lichened slates.

Miss Bimble was toiling up the sandy path, with a basket of provisions bought in the village of Milton, which lies out of sight beyond the curve of the valley. There was a look of virtuous resolution on her puckered face, an uncommon kindliness that for the nonce made her almost comely. At the stile, where the path entered the first field, she put down her burden, ‘phewed’, and mopped her forehead with her apron.

‘By’r leddy,’ she muttered, ‘et’s more nor hot—et ’s griddlin’. I reckon I suffer more wi’ bein’ fat. When that poor lad Aitchilees were a-courtin’ me, we used for to think nowt o’ th’ climb—et were but child’s play then. But I measured nineteen inch raand th’ waist i’ those days, an’ naa I’m forty an’ five inch! Solid flesh, tho’,’ she struck her bosom heavily with her closed hand; ‘better nor’s to be fun’ naa’-days!’