“Oh, he tarried not after that,” quoth she: “he did only mutter somewhat that methought should be to ask pardon, and then went off in another minute.”
Mother laid down her work with a glow in her eyes.
“O Edith!” saith she: “I am so thankful thou art not,”—but all suddenly she shut up tight, and the glow went out of her eyes and into her cheeks. I never know what that signifieth: and I have seen it to hap aforetime. But she took up her sewing again, and said no more, till she saith all at once right the thing which I desired her not to say.
“Did this gentleman speak with thee, Milly?”
I made my voice as cool and heedless as I could.
“Well, Mother, I reckon it was the same that I saw leaning against a tree at the other side of the isle, which spake to me and asked me what the isle was called, and who Saint Hubert were. He told me, the same as Edith, that he had known you aforetime.”
“Didst get a poem unto thy sweet eyes, Milly?” saith Edith, laughing.
“Nay,” said I, “mine eyes be not so sweet as thine.”
“Did he ask at thee if Father were at home?”
“Ay, he asked that.”