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“So be it,” saith I; for I was set upon keeping my temper. “What dost thou say to Beryamen Piggin, the brewer?”

“A say if ever a piggin was in sore need o’ a new link, ’tis that one,” saith she. “And, what’s more, I’ll not serve for ‘t,” saith she.

“How, then, of Nanfan Speckle, the tanner?”

“A’s as pied as a’s name,” quoth she, “both soul and body.”

“There be Jezreel Spittlewig, the joiner.”

“Methinks,” quoth she, “if a’d do a little joining to a’s own shackling body, a might hold together long enough to go through the marriage ceremony,” saith she. “Howbeit, I’m not a-sure of ‘t.”

“Well, then, Jack Stirthepot, the chair-mender.”

“A’d have to stir th’ pot with a witch ere a brewed a wedding with me,” quoth she.

“What sayest to Reuben Puff, the tinker?”

“If I say so much as a word to any one o’ em,” cried she, snatching up the pail wherein she had brought my victuals, “may thy first grandchild be born without a tongue!” saith she. And out she went.

Then quoth I to myself, quoth I, “Lemon,” quoth I, “the jade’s in love with th’ crack–no more, no less.” And I said further, said I, “Bodykins!” said I, a-shoeing of King Edward with all my might, “by cock and pye!” said I, “an a wants him let a have him. ‘Tis more than his dessert, I’ll warrant,” so quoth I. “And as for Dame Visor’s hussy, let her learn to bridle her tongue,” quoth I. And ’twas just here that wench Keren did creep up and take me about the neck, as I was a-filing of King Edward’s hoof.

“Father,” saith she, “I cry thee pardon if I have sauced thee; but dost not mind the rhyme thou art so fond of?–

“‘Shoe the horse, and shoe the mare,
But let the little colt go bare.’

Seek not to chide me, father, and ne’er will my heels bring hurt to any.”

Then off was she again ere I had spat forth my mouthful o’ nails to answer her.

But that evening as I came home, about the going down o’ th’ sun, I did hear voices i’ th’ kitchen, and, looking in at th’ window, behold, there was that hussy Ruth a-plucking of Keren by th’ kirtle, and Keren a-holding of a pan o’ milk above her head, as though she had half a mind to souse her cousin in ‘t.

And saith she, “Get to thy feet, wench. This is neither a church, nor am I th’ Lord.”

But th’ girl (who seemed to be in trouble o’ some sort) fell a-sobbing, and saith she,

“Cousin, cousin, I know I have used thee ill, but all my joy is in him. If thou takest him from me, better didst thou take my life, for he is more to me than life.”

Then quoth my lass, “Shame on thee to say it o’ any man, worthy or unworthy!”

“Oh, shame enough have I, cousin!” quoth the poor wench–“shame to ‘a’ lost him, and shame that I should plead with another to give him back to me!”

“Go to!” saith Keren; “go to! I have not got him to give him back to thee.”

“Thou hast!” saith Ruth; “thou hast!–he is thine, soul and body–soul and body! And thou dost not care; and I care–oh, I care so that I know not how to word it!”

(Every word that passed between ’em is as clear in my mind as though ’twere but yesterday it all happened.)

“I say shame on thee to say so,” saith my lass again.

But the wench still hung about her, and would not let go, and she saith,

“Oh, cousin, cousin, cousin, doth it not show thee in what straits I am, that I come to thee for succor? Rather had I died, one week agone, than ask thee for thy hand though I were drowning. And sure ’tis less than thy hand for which I ask thee now, sith it be for a man who is less to thee than the littlest finger on that hand, but who is more to me than the heart in my wretched body! And a had vowed to wed me; and ’twas next month we were to be wed; and all so happy–my father and my mother so pleased, and his folks do like me well; and my wedding-gown all sewn and lain away, and the ribbons for my shoes, and some kickshaws for th’ new house; and all we so glad, and all going so smooth, and we twain so loving; for, oh, he did love me the once! he did love me the once! And now–now–now–” And here did she fall a-weeping in such wise that never another word could she say. And she sate down on the kitchen floor, and hid all her pretty head (for pretty ’twas, though I liked her not)–hid it all in the skirt o’ her kirtle.