MICHAEL:
My mother here?

RUTH:
I always fancied she’d turn up again,
In spite of all her raivelling--Michael, you mind,
About the mutch with frills, and all thon havers?
But where we are to put her I can’t think:
There’s not a bed for her.

JUDITH:
She’s on my bed.

RUTH:
Your bed? But you ...

JUDITH:
She’s welcome to my bed,
As long as she has need. She’ll not lie long,
Before they lift her.

MICHAEL:
Judith!

RUTH:
She’s not dead?

JUDITH:
Ay, son: she breathed her last an hour ago.