"Vevette, if you could tell me one thing it would ease my mind wonderfully."
"Well," said I, "what is it?"
"Was the other day the first time you—the first time—"
"The first time I ever deceived my mother?" I said, to help him out. "Was that what you want to know?"
Then, as he nodded assent, "No, Andrew, it was not. When I was quite a child, not more than twelve years old, my Uncle Charles sent my mother some tales and play-books, and I stole two or three of them and read them in secret. I had them till the day before we went to the supper at the grange, and then I burned them all. Since then I have read nothing of the sort till that day Betty persuaded me to read with her the book my Aunt Jem gave me."
"And this is the whole truth!" said he. Then, as I withdrew a step and looked at him, he added eagerly, "Forgive me, Vevette, but this matter is of such great importance to me. So much depends upon it."
"So much depends upon it!" I repeated. "What?"
Then, as he did not answer, I went on firmly, though with a mortal pang at my heart, "Andrew, I want you to understand one thing. If you have any doubt of me, any doubt whatever of my being worthy, if you have any hesitation in the matter, I will never consent to be your wife—never, for all the family compacts ever made in the world."
I spoke vehemently, yet with low voice, as I was apt to do when greatly moved. We had just come to a turn in the path, and before us lay the half-ruined cottage—Torden's cottage. It was a place avoided after dark, for it had an ill name on account of a wrecker who had once lived there, and who had died a fearful death. As we came in sight of it, we saw two figures before us—the two whom Rosamond had described—a tall slender man in a cloak, and a female figure in a gray homespun gown. As we drew near she turned her head a very little.
Andrew gripped my hand hard. "Betty!" said he, in a hoarse whisper.