“Aye, sure,” she sighed; “he would never believe, never be warned! Happen if he had—ah, if only he had, ’tis like he wouldn’t ha’ died so young, away off in the cruel French wars, Sir John.”
“You—you know me?” he stammered.
“Aye, indeed, Sir John!”
“When did you recognise me?”
“’Twas when ye picked up my cabbage for me, sir.”
“And how did you know?”
“Happen ’twas y’r eyes ... or a memory o’ the years ... or happen because o’ my dreams, an’ I ... just knew.”
Sir John, leaning back in his chair, viewed her with a new respect.
“Penelope,” said he, “thou’rt a strange and wonderful woman!”