“But thou should’st not make me say it out loud, mother,” said Janet, with another giggle; “but, when there be so much courting and love-making up at home, how can a girl help thinking about such things?”
“Ay, truly, dear, how indeed! But why should not so bonnie a maiden win a husband, I should like to know.”
“What, as Mistress Mace?” said Janet, pouting.
“Nay, as Mistress Janet,” said the old woman, chuckling. “Well, well, and who is it to be, and what can I tell thee?”
“I want—I want to know—”
“Ay, ay, speak out, dearie.”
“I want to know,” faltered Janet, glancing at the door of the inner room and then at that of the entrance, “I want to know—Oh, I daren’t ask it,” she said, turning red and pale by turns.
“Thou would’st know the name of thy husband.”
“Ay, how could you tell that?” cried the simple girl.
“Such things be as plain to me as if they were written in a book. Sit down there,” she cried, pointing to a stool in the middle of the room.