‘I think of the dear Providence, Brion, that brought us together to reach this very end, and of how it would be sin to cross its plain intentions; I think of a thousand kind things done to extenuate a thousand evils; and I think of my dear lord no longer wickedly accusing himself of being a pauper husband—as if love, like gingerbread ships, were the better for gilding—but rich as his love for his loving maid. O!’—she slipped her arms about his neck, and clung to him a little wildly—‘it is not avarice in me, Brion, but only that—indeed, indeed it is. For a word of love a day I would follow you in rags to the world’s end.’
‘My Joan!’ he said, in a full voice, and held her to him, whispering and fondling. For a little there was silence between them.
‘Well,’ he said at last; ‘let it be, then. Ill-got shall be well-spent, and the curse, mayhap, turned into a blessing.’
‘By us,’ she said happily. She looked up, a sudden pink on her cheek, into his face. ‘I have thought of one thing, Brion. It is to help those—in some way—l-love children—so many like ourselves, but, unlike us, wretched and forsaken.’
‘Yes, Joan, you good child.’
‘Then—b-bustards they may call us, Brion, but cuckoos we will be.’
‘Why cuckoos, Joan?’
‘They are the birds, are they not, that look after other birds’ young?’
His eyes opened, and a premonitory spasm seemed to flutter his chest.
‘What is the matter, Brion?’