human
Go on, Cripps, as soon as you can, he said in a calm and gentle voice.
gpt
Try not to keep me waiting, Cripps.
human
I be trying; I be trying all I knows. The blessed angel be dead and buried, close to Tickuss's tatie crop, in the corner of bramble quarry. At least, I mean Tickuss's taties was there; but he dug them a fortnight, come Monday, he did.
gpt
The corner of the 'Gipsy's Grave,' as they call it. Who found it? How do you know it?
human
Esther was there. She seed the whole of it. Before the snow come--last Tuesday night.
gpt
Tuesday night! Ah, Tuesday night! --for the moment, the old man had lost his clearness.
human
It can't have been Tuesday night--it was Wednesday when I rode down to my sister's. Cripps, your sister must have dreamed it. My darling was then at her aunt's, quite safe. You have frightened me for nothing, Cripps.
gpt
I am glad with all my heart, cried Zacchary;
human
I am quite sure it were Tuesday night, because of Mrs. Exie. And your Worship knows best of the days, no doubt. Thank the Lord for all His mercies! Well, seeing now it were somebody else, in no ways particular, and perhaps one of them gipsy girls as took the fever to Cowley, if your Worship will take your pen again, I will tell you all as Esther seed:--Two men with a pickaxe working, where the stone overhangeth so, and the corpse of a nice young woman laid for the stone to bury it natural. No harm at all in the world, when you come to think, being nought of a Christian body. And they let go the rock, and it come down over, to save all infection. Lord, what a turn that Etty gived me, all about a trifle! The Carrier wiped his forehead, and smiled.
gpt
And won't I give it well to her?
human
Poor girl! It is no trifle, Cripps, whoever it may have been. But stop--I am all abroad. It was Tuesday afternoon when my poor darling left Mrs. Fermitage. And to the quarry, across the fields, from the way she would come, is not half a mile--half a mile of fields and hedgerows---- Oh, Cripps, it was my daughter!
gpt
Her maight a' been, sure enough, said Cripps, in whom the reflective vein, for the moment, had crossed the sentimental--
human
Zacchary now, the will of the Lord be done, without calculation! My grave is all I care to count on, if my Grace lies buried so. But before I go to it, please God, I will find out who has done it!
gpt
Now, do 'ee put on a muffler, sir,