"Well, well! To think of all the years since you came singing carols to
my door! You remember it, don't you? . . . Of course you do. 'Doctor,' I
said, 'don't talk foolish. _She'll_ not forget. _I_ know Mary O'Neill.
She may be going to be a great lady, but haven't I nursed her on my
knee?'"
"Then you've heard what's to happen?" I asked.
"Aw yes, woman, yes," she answered in a sadder tone, I thought.
"Everybody's bound to hear it--what with the bands practising for the
procession, and the bullocks roasting for the poor, and the fireworks
and the illuminations, and I don't know what."
She was silent for a moment after that, and then in her simple way she
said:
"But it's all as one if you love the man, even if he _is_ a lord."
"You think that's necessary, don't you?"
"What, _millish?_"
"Love. You think it's necessary to love one's husband?"
"Goodness sakes, girl, yes. If you don't have love, what have you?
What's to keep the pot boiling when the fire's getting low and the
winter's coming on, maybe? The doctor's telling me some of the fine
ladies in London are marrying without it--just for money and titles and
all to that.
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