“Mother Goodhugh, Mother Goodhugh!”
“Yes; who be it?” she said, and, tottering to the door, she opened the latch with trembling hand to as it were admit a ray of light to her breast, for the visitor brought hope.
It was Janet.
“Well, child,” she said, “and why have you come?”
“Don’t ask me yet, mother,” whispered the girl, hurrying in, and helping to close the door. “If Mas’ Cobbe knew I be come here he would half kill me.”
“Of course, of course, child! It be very wrong to come and visit poor Mother Goodhugh. Aren’t you afraid I should curse you, child?”
“Oh no, mother!” cried the girl, who, now that she was inside, recovered herself. “I want you to bless me.”
“Ah, child, and how?”
“Oh, mother,” giggled the girl, “you know. How do young women want to be blest?”
“With a husband, eh, dearie?” said the old woman with a cunning leer, as she scanned Janet’s pretty, weak face, and thought about how her good fortune had played into her hands by sending her a tool with which, if she were skilful, she could work her ends.