nto.
They'll fit her, as they never fitted me:
For all her youth, they will not gall her heels,
Or give her corns: she's the true Cinderella:
The clock has struck for her; and the dancing's done;
And the Prince has brought her home--to wash the dishes.
But now I'm free: and I'll away to-night.
My bones have been restless in me all day long:
They felt their freedom coming, before I kenned.
I've little time to lose: I'm getting old--
Stiff-jointed in my wits, that once were nimble
As a ferret among the bobtails, old and dull.
A night or so may seem to matter little,
When I've already lost full fifteen-year:
But I hear the owls call: and my fur's a-tingle:
The Haggard blood is pricking in my veins.

(_She loosens the string of her apron, which slips to the ground, kilts
her skirt to her knee, takes the orange-coloured kerchief from her
pocket, and twists it about her head; while MICHAEL and RUTH watch
the transformation in amazement._)

MICHAEL:
But you don't mean to leave us?

BELL:
Pat it comes:
You've just to twitch the wire and the bell rings:
You'll learn the trick, soon, Ruth. (_To MICHAEL_) Bat, don't you see
I've just put on my nightcap, ready for bed--
Grannie's frilled mutch? I leave you, Michael? Son,
The time came, as it comes to every man,
When you'd to make a choice betwixt two women.
You've made your choice: and chosen well: but I,
Who've always done the choosing, and never yet
Tripped to the beck of any man, or bobbed
To any living woman--I'm free to follow
My own bent, now that that old witch's fingers
Have slackened their cold clutch; and your dead grannie
Has gained her ends, and seen you settled down
At Krindlesyke: and from this on I, too,
Am dead to you. You'll soon enough forget me:
The world would end if a man could not forget
His mother's deathbed in his young wife's arms--
I'm far from corpse-cold yet; and it may be years
Before they pluck Bell Haggard's kerchief off,
To tie her chin up with, and ripe her pockets
Of her last pennies to shut up her eyes.
Even then, they'll have to tug the chin-clout tight,
To keep her tongue from wagging. Well, my son,
So, it's good-bye till doomsday.

MICHAEL:
You're not going?
I thought you only havered. You can't go.
Do you think I'd let you go, and ...

BELL:
Hearken, Ruth:
That's the true husband's voice: for husbands think,
If only t