to church with 'im Sundays, an' pulled the wool over 'is eyes. An' there we were, all playin' double, miss, the one with the other. An' 'Arry deceivin' 'is family the way I did mine.
"What troubled me most was that 'Arry chafed at 'is 'prenticeship, an' was all for runnin' away to London—or to America—to make 'is fortune, if I 'd come. 'E wouldn't go so far away an' leave me to Cousin William, though I swore I 'd as soon be wed to an ox. We 'ad no money. I saw never a penny from year's end to year's end on the farm, miss. An' 'Arry was not much better. But we used to meet an' talk plans—the way young folk will—an' make love as if money for marryin' was no matter.
Then one Sunday 'e did n't come, an' I was afeard that what Cousin William 'oped was comin' true about 'Arry, an' this the beginnin'. But that night there was a tap on my window, an' the casement rattled, an' I saw it was 'Arry, dark against the sky that was full o' moonlight. 'E was standin' on a ladder that 'e 'd carried from the barnyard, an' 'e laughed an' kissed me, an' said it was because 'is father 'ad found 'im out an' forbade 'im to be wastin' 'is time runnin' after a girl when 'e should be thinkin' of 'is studies. An' now 'e 'd 'ave to see me Sunday nights, after all were abed."
The girl had turned, as if she were about to speak.
The old woman hurried on: "It was 'is nature to do such things, miss, an' to take more delight in them because o' the risk. I was afeard for 'im—an' for myself. But that wore off with his comin' again an'
