again. 'E was a dear lad, an' made love like a book. We met at the window, or sat by it, with scarce light enough sometimes to see each other's faces when we kissed—whisperin' an' makin' our promises an' namin' each other fond names. An' the guilt of it made it all the sweeter." She lingered on it, smiling. Her smile faltered and changed slowly.
The girl said: "You were—They found out?"
"Yes, miss. Cousin William—'e must 'ave guessed what was goin' on, though 'Arry was careful to put the ladder back where 'e found it, an' leave no footprints in the garden under my window. Cousin William—We never knew 'ow it was. But one black night, when the summer was just warmin', an' 'Arry 'ad no more than reached the top o' the ladder an' put 'is arms up to me, some one rushed around the side o' th' 'ouse from the kitchen, an' 'Arry jumped."
She dropped her voice. "It was dark, miss. 'E didn't do it o' purpose. But 'e came down on my Cousin William—an' there was n't so much as a groan. 'E was all in a 'eap with 'is 'at crushed down on his face an' 'is chin' on 'is chest, 'is neck broke, dead, miss. I saw 'im when I come down the ladder an' clung to 'Arry an' told 'im to run for 'is life."
"Good Heavens!" the nurse gasped.
She made the gesture of a fatalist. "There was no undoin' it. An' 'Arry 'd not go without me. An' 'e 'ad to go, miss. It would be found out. It would be said they 'd quarreled about me. So I climbed back an' made a bundle o' my clothes. An' when I came to the
