“Bill, this maid Gillian is the one David Alden spoke of last harvest, isn’t she?”
“Ay, is she. And mind you, Joe, what he said of her?”
“That she would wile a bird off a bough; yes, that’s what Dave said, and Betty Alden, she puts in, ‘Allowing ’twas a male bird, so she would.’”
“Ay, Betty’s keen as a needle, and as straight. Well, Joe, if she’s made a fool of a score, there’s no call for us to make it two-and-twenty, is there?”
“Indeed there’s not, and I wouldn’t vex the dear mother for a cargo of red-gold heads like hers.”
“Nor for any other. So, that’s settled, Joe, and you’re breathed by now. Come on.”
An hour later the young men, worn, weary, and sore athirst, welcomed the sound of rushing waters, heard but not seen through the thick foliage, and Joseph, in the advance as usual, cried out,—
“Hullo! Here’s Jenney’s Mill close at hand. We’ve got enough birds for a famous stew, so let’s stop and rest awhile, and speak with the miller’s folk.”
“‘Folk’ standing for Abby and Sally and Sue Jenney,” said William provokingly.
“And Sam and his new wife, who was a great friend of yours, Master Bill, while she was called Nanny Lettice, and the Widow Jenney, who to my mind is better company than the girls.”