down by the bridge, an' told each other everything there was to tell. 'E called me 'Little Miss Muffet' an' teased me because I was so small—but I knew 'e liked me small an' light-footed—for all the other girls were big an' clumsy. An' when 'e kissed me good-by, I knew it was the same with 'im that it was with me—an' I went singin' about the kitchen till I saw Aunt Wilson lookin' at me out o' the corner of 'er eye—an' after that I only sung soft in my own room, sittin' at the window an' lookin' out at the frosty beck."
She was smiling the smile of memory and soft thoughts, her eyes set and vacant. The girl beside her had something of the same expression. But the girl's smile was clear-cut, freshly minted; and the old woman's was like the face on an old silver coin.
The girl sighed. "And so," she said, "you ran away together?"
"No, miss. Not then. Not till long after. Not till 'Arry's father 'prenticed 'im to a lawyer, an' Uncle Wilson went against my aunt, an' said I 'd make a good wife for Cousin William, an' I began to plot an' plan 'ow I should do.
"'Arry would come 'ome Sundays, an' we 'd meet unknown to any one unless my aunt—an' I think she knew, miss. She found ways to let me run off unknown to Cousin William, tho' she said nothing. She 'd sooner I 'ad 'Arry than 'er son. An' if Cousin William knew of 'Arry, 'e 'id it for the sake o' bein' right with me. An' from what 'e said, I knew 'e thought 'Arry 'd forget me in town. An' so I went
