“Oh, stay, Meg! Thou shalt stifle me,” said the Turk, in Agatha’s voice.
“Ay, I thought you’d somewhat to do wi’ ’t, my damsel; it were like you. Have you driven anybody else out o’ her seven senses beside me wi’ yon foolery?”
“You’ve kept in seventy senses,” pouted Agatha, releasing herself from the last corner of her ghostly drapery. “Meg, you’re a spoil-sport.”
“My dame shall con you but poor thanks, Mistress Agatha, if you travail folks o’ this fashion while she tarrieth hence. Mistress Amphillis, too! Marry, I thought—”
“I tarried here to lessen the mischief,” said Amphillis.
“It wasn’t thee I meant to fright,” said Agatha, with a pout. “I thought Father Jordan was a-coming; it was he I wanted. Never blame Amphillis; she’s nigh as bad as thou.”
“Mistress Amphillis, I ask your pardon. Mistress Agatha, you’re a bad un. ’Tis a burning shame to harry a good old man like Father Jordan. Thee hie to thy bed, and do no more mischief, thou false hussy! I’ll tell my dame of thy fine doings when she cometh home; I will, so!”
“Now, Meg, dear, sweet Meg, don’t, and I’ll—”
“You’ll get you abed and ’bide quiet. I’m neither dear nor sweet; I’m a cook-maid, and you’re a young damsel with a fortin, and you’d neither ‘sweet’ nor ‘dear’ me without you were wanting somewhat of me. Forsooth, they’ll win a fortin that weds wi’ the like of you! Get abed, thou magpie!”
And Meg was heard muttering to herself as she mounted the upper stairs to the attic chamber, which she shared with Joan and Kate.