"It canna hurt her now," muttered he. "Nought can hurt her now." Then, raising his voice to a wailing cry, he went on: "We may quarrel and fall out--we may make peace and be friends--we may clem to skin and bone--and nought o' all our griefs will ever touch her more. Hoo's had her portion on 'em. What wi' hard work first, and sickness at last, hoo' led the life of a dog. And to die without knowing one good piece o' rejoicing in all her days! Nay, wench, whatever hoo said, hoo can know nought about it now, and I mun ha' a sup o' drink just to steady me again sorrow."

'It canna hurt her now,' muttered he. 'Nought can hurt her now.' Then, in a wail, he went on: 'We may quarrel - we may make peace - we may clem to skin and bone - and nought will ever touch her more. What wi' hard work and sickness, hoo's led the life of a dog. And to die without knowing one joy in all her days! Nay, wench, whatever hoo said, hoo can know nought about it now, and I must ha' a drink just to steady me.'
