PEGEEN.
Yourself and me would shelter easy in a narrow bush; (with a qualm of dread) but we're only talking, maybe, for this would be a poor, thatched place to hold a fine lad is the like of you.
CHRISTY, putting his arm round her.
If I wasn't a good Christian, it's on my naked knees I'd be saying my prayers and paters to every jackstraw you have roofing your head, and every stony pebble is paving the laneway to your door.
PEGEEN, radiantly.
If that's the truth I'll be burning candles from this out to the miracles of God that have brought you from the south to-day, and I with my gowns bought ready, the way that I can wed you, and not wait at all.
CHRISTY.
It's miracles, and that's the truth. Me there toiling a long while, and walking a long while, not knowing at all I was drawing all times nearer to this holy day.
PEGEEN.
And myself, a girl, was tempted often to go
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