“Come in, child, in,” she said kindly, her shrewd, keen eyes taking in the girl’s white, haggard face and miserable expression.
Anny looked up at her for a moment, and then her mouth twitched convulsively at the corners, her eyes filled with tears, and she flung herself in the old woman’s arms, sobbing hysterically.
Nan led her into the little dark hut and sat on an empty keg, gently pulling the girl down beside her. Then she began to rock herself gently to and fro. She said nothing for some minutes, during which Anny’s sobs grew less and less violent.
“Now what’s the matter, my daughter?” said Nan, after the girl’s grief had somewhat abated.
Anny began to cry afresh.
“Oh, Nan, what will I do?” she sobbed. “What will I do?”
The older woman put her hands on the girl’s shoulders and held her firm.
“Cry till ye can cry no more, lass, and then tell your story; ’tis the best way; crying eases the heart. The Lord gave women tears that their hearts might not break every day,” she said, her great kindly voice echoing round and about the little shanty.
Anny lifted up her tear-stained face from the old woman’s knee, and, carefully avoiding her piercing brown eyes, began to speak in a half-whisper, stopping here and there to wipe her eyes.
“When I came home from the wedding wi’ Master Dick,” she began—Nan started at her words and carefully suppressed an exclamation of horrified surprise—“we passed—Hal—on the way—and, when I got to the Ship, no one was in the kitchen, so I sat down on the long seat and thought on the Captain, and after a while Hal comes in, and——” She paused.