“Giles,” exclaimed Hannah tremulously, “somebody must ha’ read your letter to me.”
The jeers and laughter redoubled, and Jem exclaimed triumphantly—
“Somebody read it, an’ somebody wrote it!”
“Wasn’t it Giles?” faltered Hannah, turning pale beneath her tan, and beginning to tremble violently. Some instinct of womanly compassion suddenly sobered Alice. Pushing through the hedge she made her way to Hannah’s side.
“’Twas but a joke, my dear,” she explained somewhat shamefacedly. “There, ’tis the first of April, ye see, an’ we jist thought we’d play ye a bit of trick. ’Twas made up jist for fun. We wrote Giles a letter in your name asking him to meet ye here an’ sayin’—sayin’—”
“What did ye say?” interrupted Hannah, the colour rushing back to her shamed, distressed face. “Oh, Mr Neale, you thought it was me. I’d never ha’ wrote no letter, I’d never ha’ been so bold. I—I wouldn’t ha’ come here wi’out I thought ’twas you as axed me. I had a letter this marnin’ signed in your name. I thought ’twas from you—I thought—” Breaking off suddenly she raised her apron to her eyes.
Giles made a step towards her, pushed Alice roughly on one side, and jerked the apron down.
“Give over cryin’,” he exclaimed gruffly. “Let’s get at the rights o’ this. I must have a look at that there letter—give it to me.”
“Oh, I’d never have the face,” Hannah was beginning when he silenced her with the reiterated command in a raised voice—
“Give it to me, I say! I’ll ha’ the rights o’ this—dalled if I don’t!”