"Like enough, Jack," says I. "What would you? He's her husband, and 'tis as if he was dead to her. She cannot be a maid again. 'Tis young to be a widow, and no hope of being wife ever more."
"God forgive me," says he, hanging his head.
"We did it for the best," says I. "We could not foresee this."
"'Twas so natural to think we should be happy again being all together. Howsoever," adds he, straightening himself with a more manful vigour, "we will do something to chase these black dogs hence."
On his lathe was the egg cup he had been turning for Moll; he snapped it off from the chuck and flung it in the litter of chips and shavings, as if 'twere the emblem of his past folly.
It so happened that night that Moll could eat no supper, pleading for her excuse that she felt sick.
"What is it, chuck?" says Jack, setting down his knife and drawing his chair beside Moll's.
"The vapours, I think," says she, with a faint smile.
"Nay," says he, slipping his arm about her waist and drawing her to him. "My Moll hath no such modish humours. 'Tis something else. I have watched ye, and do perceive you eat less and less. Tell us what ails you."
"Well, dear," says she, "I do-believe 'tis idleness is the root of my disorder."
"Idleness was never wont to have this effect on you."
"But it does now that I am grown older. There's not enough to do. If I could find some occupation for my thoughts, I should not be so silly."
