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     "You don't", she challenged. "Tell me what it is".
     "The wonder is I didn't see at once.
     I never noticed it from here before.
     I must be wonted to it -- that's the reason.
     The little graveyard where my people are!
     So small the window frames the whole of it.
     Not so much larger than a bedroom, is it?
     There are three stones of slate and one of marble,
     Broad-shouldered little slabs there in the sunlight
     On the sidehill. We haven't to mind [those].
     But I understand: it is not the stones,
     But the child's mound --"
     "Don't, don't, don't
     don't," she cried.
     She withdrew, shrinking from beneath his arm
     That rested on the banister, and slid downstairs;
     And turned on him with such a daunting look,
     He said twice over before he knew himself:
     "Can't a man speak of his own child he's lost?"
     "Not you! -- Oh, where's my hat? Oh, I don't need it!
     I must get out of here. I must get air. --
     I don't know rightly whether any man can."
     "Amy! Don't go to someone else this time.
     Listen to me. I won't come down the stairs."
     He sat and fixed his chin between his fists.
     "There's something I should like to ask you, dear."
     "You don't know how to ask it."
     "Help me, then."
     Her fingers moved the latch for all reply.
     "My words are nearly always an offense.
     I don't know how to speak of anything
     So as to please you. But I might be taught,
     I should suppose. I can't say I see how.
     A man must partly give up being a man
     With womenfolk. We could have some arrangment
     By which I'd bind myself to keep hands off
     Anything special you're a-mind to name.
     Though I don't like such things ‘twixt those that love.
     Two that don't love can't live together without them.

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