"Millicent! What do you in the garden, child? Sure 'tis thy train I see on the grass. What dost thou behind the apple-tree?"
It was the girl's mother,—Ravenshaw dared not look from behind the tree, but he knew the voice.
"Say you are with Sir Peregrine," he whispered.
With a trembling voice, she obeyed.
"Oh!" exclaimed Mistress Etheridge, satisfied; but then, as with a suddenly engendered doubt, "I should have thought Sir Peregrine would speak for himself."
"Oh, heaven!" whispered Millicent; "she will send down to see."
"Good lack, sweet mother!" cried Ravenshaw, in well-nigh perfect imitation of Sir Peregrine's cracked voice, "may not young lovers steal away for a tender minute or so? May not doves coo in a corner unseen? Must sweethearts be called from a quiet bower, and made to show themselves, and to give answers?"
"Peace, peace, Sir Peregrine! I am much to blame," replied Mistress Etheridge; and went away from the window, as Millicent observed in peeping around the apple-tree.
"Faith," whispered Ravenshaw, "lest we be overheard, I should speak love to you in his voice henceforth."