“Ay, dearie; don’t we practise the art together. But hist, hist, come to my cottage and let us talk.”
“Not a step will I go,” cried Anne, angrily.
“Nay, is it so? Ah, she has gotten what she wanted by my help—a brave, fine husband, and now she throws me by.”
“Cease thy talk about those childish follies. I am sick of them.”
“Ay, child, yes; thou art sick of them now, but when thou wast hungry for thy love nothing was too good for Mother Goodhugh then.”
“Out upon thee! Did I not pay thee well for thy silly mummeries?”
“Pay me well?” cried Mother Goodhugh. “Nay; what were a few paltry gold pieces for such a husband as I gained for thee?”
“You gained for me?” cried Anne, contemptuously.
“Ay, to be sure, I gained for thee, mistress; and now thou hast him safe I be thrown aside. Not once hast thou been to me these many months.”
“I tell thee I have done with such follies,” cried Anne contemptuously. “I have paid thee, and there the matter ends.”