And here was Essy with not a sign of sorrow or of shame about her,
offering (in the teeth of her deserved dismissal), actually offering
as a favor to stay over Christmas and to see them through. The naked
impudence of it was what staggered him.
"I have no intention of keeping you over Christmas. You will take your
notice and your wages from to-day, and you will go on Saturday."
"Yes, sir."
In her going Essy turned.
"Will yo' taake me back, sir, when it's all over?"
"No. No. I shouldn't think of taking you back."
The Vicar hid his hands in his pockets and leaned forward, thrusting
his face toward Essy as he spoke.
"I'm afraid, my girl, it never will be all over, as long as you regard
your sin as lightly as you do."
Essy did not see the Vicar's face thrust toward her. She was sidling
to the door. She had her hand on the doorknob.
"Come back," said the Vicar. "I have something else to say to you."
Essy came no nearer. She remained standing by the door.
"Who is the man, Essy?"
At that Essy's face began to shake piteously. Standing by the door,
she cried quietly, with soft sobs, neither hiding her face nor drying
her tears as they came.
"You had better tell me," said the Vicar.
"I s'all nat tall yo'," said Essy, with passionate determination,
between the sobs.
"You must."
"I s'all nat--I s'all nat."
"Hiding it won't help you," said the Vicar.
Essy raised her head.
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