"What do you mean, George? How queer and rough you speak!"
"Maybe I know more'n you think, young woman."
"Know more than I think," she said. "There's nothing more to know."
"Ain't there? P'raps I've found out the reason why your 'eart's been closed to me—p'raps I've got the key to that secret."
"Oh, George, George, you know I'd love you ef I could."
"P'raps I've got the key to that secret," repeated the farmer. "I'm not a bad feller—not bad to look at nor bad to live with—and I gived yer all I got—but never, God above is witness, never from the day I took yer to church, 'ave yer kissed me of your own free will. No, nor ever said a lovin' word to me—the sort of words that come so glib to the lips o' other young wives. You're like one who carries sum'mat at her heart. Maybe I guess to-night."
"But there's nothing to guess," said Hetty. She was trembling, a sick fear took possession of her.
"Ain't there? Why did you make an appointment to meet Squire alone?"
"What in the world do you mean?"
"None o' your soft sawder, now, Hetty. I know what I'm a-talking of. I crep' out of barn t'other way, and I 'eard what you said."