ously warm and still and beautiful in the dim light of the lantern, so beautiful, she would never tell him how beautiful. It made her want to cling fast to him, to hold him, for there was a warm, half-sleepy remoteness in his beauty that made her want to cry out and clutch him, to have him. She would never have him. So she lay on the blanket with curved, soft naked haunches, and he had no idea what she was thinking, but to him too she was beautiful, the soft, marvellous thing he could go into, beyond everything.
"I love thee that I can go into thee," he said.
`Do you like me?" she said, her heart beating.
"It heals it all up, that I can go into thee. I love thee that tha opened to me. I love thee that I came into thee like that."
He bent down and kissed her soft flank, rubbed his cheek against it, then covered it up.
"And will you never leave me?" she said.
"Dunna ask them things," he said.
"But you do believe I love you?" she said.
"Tha loved me just now, wider than iver tha thout tha would. But who knows what'll 'appen, once tha starts thinkin' about it!"
"No, don't say those things!—And you don't really think that I wanted to make use of you, do you?"
"How?"
"To have a child—?"
"Now anybody can 'ave any childt i' th'world," he said, as he sat down fastening on his leggings.
"Ah no!" she cried. "You don't mean it?"
"Eh well!" he said, looking at her under his brows. "This wor t' best."
She lay still. He softly opened the door. The sky was dark blue, with crystalline, turquoise rim. He went out, to shut up the hens, speaking softly to his dog. And she lay and wondered at the wonder of life, and of being.
When he came back she was still lying there, glowing like a gypsy. He sat on the stool by her.
"Tha mun come one naight ter th' cottage, afore tha goos; sholl ter?" he asked, lifting his eyebrows as he looked at her, his hands dangling between his knees.
"Sholl ter?" she echoed, teasing.
