“Joyce, what is this I heard yestereven of old Mall Crewdson, touching one Everett, or Tregarvon—she wist not rightly which his name were—that hath done a deal of mischief in these parts of late? What manner of mischief?—for old Mary was very mysterious. May-be I do not well to ask afore Edith?”
“Ay, Dulcie, well enough,” saith Aunt Joyce, sadly, “for Edith knows the worst she can already. And if you knew the worst you could—”
“Why, what is it?” quoth she.
“Leonard,” saith Aunt Joyce, curtly.
“Leonard!” Every drop of blood seemed gone out of my Lady’s face. “I thought he was dead, years gone.”
“So did not I,” Aunt Joyce made low answer.
“No, I wis thou never didst,” saith my Lady, tenderly. “So thy love is still alive, Joyce? Poor heart!”
“My heart is,” she saith. “As for love, it is poor stuff if it can die.”
“There is a deal of poor stuff abroad, then,” quoth her Ladyship. “In very deed, so it is. So he is yet at his old work?”
Aunt Joyce only bent her head.