mal, only fit to be plucked----

_Bill._ And eaten, Dick?

_Dick._ Yes, with your dom'd jaw, and so cly it. This here cove sits him
down under a tree, with his head a-one side, like a fowl with the pip,
and, with a book in his hand talks a mortal deal of stuff about shaking
spears and the moon. So, when I had spied enow, I gets up and walks
straight to him, and axes him, could he tell where the great
fortin-telling woman were to be found in the wood; she as knew the past,
the present, and the future. Laid a coil for him, my girl. He be the son
of the great Squire's steward, that lives at the Hall, and he says that
he be mightily anxious to have his fortin told. He seems to be mortal
simple.

_Nelly._ What didst thou hear him mouth about?

_Dick._ May I grow honest if I bees able to tell, 'twere sich
outlandish gibberish. What have the rest done, missus?

_Nelly._ Why, like you, Richard, they're growing honest.

_Dick._ Ah! ware o' that. My grandam, who was the real seventh daughter
of a seventh daughter, said of I, in my cradle, "The moment this here
child grows honest, he'll be hung." I've done my best, all my life, to
keep my neck out of the halter.

_Nelly._ So you have, Richard. I went up to the Hall to beg for the
fragments off the rich man's table. Lady Bountiful, who was bountiful in
nought but reviling, was the person whom I met. Bridewell and the stocks
was the tune, and the big dog sang the chorus at my heels. But I'll be
more than even with her. If I have the heart to feel an injury, she
shall find that I've a head to help my heart to its revenge. Revenge--I
love it!

_Bill._ That you do, missus; I'll answer for you there. If you be
affronted, you be the most cantackerous hanimal that ever boiled a pot.
Come, Dick, let's take the jacket off our customers, for fear of
mischief. (_Dick and Bill retire with the poultry._)

_Nelly_ (_assuming a more elevated manner_). Heigho! how many things,
long forgotten, come to my memory on this spot! Hard by I was brought
up, and even from this place I can see where my father and mother lie
buried. Here I was once innocent and happy. No, not happy, or I should
have stayed, and still been innocent. But away with the useless thought!
The steward's son--it must be young Bargrove. I did not meet him
yesterday when I was at the village, but I saw and spoke to Lucy, his
sister, who was nursed at this breast; and how I yearned to press her to
it! Pretty creature, how sh