I picked up a loaf from the table. 'Twas my one sacrifice to the gods of hospitality. 'Twould serve, I thought, for the first stage in my journey.
Anne looked up at me with a kind of confused wonder. She laughed, but there was little mirth in her laughter.
"Why, what would you do with the loaf?" said she. "Do you seek to visit the widows and fatherless in their affliction?"
"Nay," said I gravely. "I would but keep myself unspotted from the world."
All merriment died out of her face.
"And what would you do?" she stammered.
"The time has come for me to leave, Mistress Anne. My horse is saddled at the door. I have been here long enough; ay, and too long. I thank you with all my heart for your kindness, and I would seek to repay it by ridding you of my company."
I fear I spoke harshly, but 'twas to hide my emotion, which bade fair to overpower me and ruin all.
"Oh, and why will you go?" she cried.
"Farewell, Anne," I said, looking at her fixedly, and I saw that she divined the reason.