with the woman in it, plunged under water.

They dragged her ashore at the end of the pole in something less than
a minute. They unstrapped and laid her gently down, and began to
feel over her heart, to learn if it were still beating. And then the
crowd parted, and These-an'-That came through it. His face wore no
more expression than usual, but his lips were working in a queer way.

He went up to his wife, took off his hat, and producing an old red
handkerchief from the crown, wiped away some froth and green weed
that hung about her mouth. Then he lifted her limp hand, and patting
the back of it gently, turned on the crowd. His lips were still
working. It was evident he was trying to say something.

"Naybours," the words came at last, in the old dull tone; "I'd as
lief you hadn' thought o' this."

He paused for a moment, gulped down something in his throat, and went
on--

"I wudn' say you didn' mean it for the best, an' thankin' you kindly.
But you didn' know her. Roughness, if I may say, was never no good
wi' her. It must ha' been very hard for her to die like this, axin
your parden, for she wasn' one to bear pain."

Another long pause.

"No, she cudn' bear pain. P'raps _he_ might ha' stood it better--
though o' course you acted for the best, an' thankin' you kindly.
I'd as lief take her home now, naybours, if 'tis all the same."