“You and me?” responded Collet, lifting her bundle higher, into an easier position. “’Tis well enough for the lads, I dare say; but what ado hath it with you and me?”
“I love to think, neighbour, that somewhat akin to it is said by nows and thens of us, too, in the Court of the Great King, when the enemy accuseth us—‘Ay, she did this ill thing, and she’s but a poor black sinner at best; but thou shalt not have her, Satan; I’m her Father.’”
“You’re right there, Emmet Wilson,” said Collet, in a tone which showed that the last sentence had touched her heart. “The work and care that my lads give me is nought to the sins wherewith we be daily angering the Lord. He’s always forgiving us, be sure.”
“A sight easier than men do, Collet Pardue, take my word for it.”
“What mean you, neighbour?” asked Collet, turning round to look her companion in the face, for Emmet’s tone had indicated that she meant more than she said.
“I mean one man in especial, and his name’s Bastian.”
“What, the priest? Dear heart! I’ve not angered him, trow?”
“You soon will, if you cut your cloth as you’ve measured it. How many times were you at mass this three months past?”
“How many were you?” was the half-amused answer.
“There’s a many in Staplehurst as hasn’t been no oftener,” said Emmet, “that I know: but it’ll not save you, Collet. The priest has his eye on you, be sure.”