“Mother Goodhugh!” she cried in a startled voice.
“Yes, my dearie, it be Mother Goodhugh. What can I do for thee, my beauty bird?”
“Nothing, mother,” replied Anne sharply. “Nothing, my dearie?” said the old woman laughing. “Nay, surely you want some help of the poor old woman who works to help you. Is it a new lover, my dear?”
“I have told thee I do not want anything, mother,” cried Anne peevishly.
“Nay, then, come on to my cottage, where we can talk. Thou has not been to see me for months and months.”
“Nay, mother, I’ll come no more. Good day, I must get me home.”
“Stay, child,” cried Mother Goodhugh, clutching at her dress; “I want to talk to thee of him. Come to my place.”
“Loose me this instant, mother,” cried Mistress Anne, indignantly. “How darest thou lay thy hands on me?”
“Only because we are sisters, dearie.”
“Sisters?”