Ah me, but what sore work it were to tell him! I might scarce bear to see the sorrowful changes wrought in his face. But when I came to tell how Aunt Joyce had called this gentleman by the name of Leonard Norris, for one minute his eyes blazed out like hers. Then they went very dark and troubled, and he hid his face in his hands till I had made an end of my sad story.
“And I would fain not have been she that told you, Father,” said I, “but Aunt Joyce bade me so to do.”
“I must have heard it from some lips, daughter,” he saith sorrowfully. “But have a care thou say no word to thy mother. She must hear it from none but me. My poor Lettice!—and my poor Milisent, my poor, foolish, duped child!”
I left him then, for I thought he would desire it, and went up to Milly. She had cast off her hood and tippet, and lay on her bed, her face turned to the wall.
“Dost lack aught, Milly?” said I.
“Nay,” was all she said.
“Shall I bide with thee?”
“Nay.”
Nor one word more might I get out of her. So I left her likewise, and came down to the little parlour, where I sat me to my sewing.
It was about an hour after that I heard Aunt Joyce’s firm tread on the gravel. She came into the parlour, and looked around as though to see who were there. Then she saith—