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.
Then stood my lass quite still, and her face like the milk in her pan, and she looks down on th' hussy, as a horse might look down on a kitten which it hath unwitting trampled on, and she saith,
"I would I knew whether or no thou speakest the truth!"