"Yes, sir."
"And for which Sophia--were you weeping last night?" Tom asked with irony.
Betty's face flamed; her fingers tingled also, though the slip was her own. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to throw off the mask, and tell the young man who she was. But for a reason, Betty did not choose to adopt this course. Instead, she stooped, pretending that her shoe-buckle was unfastened; when she rose there were tears in her eyes.
"You are very unkind, sir," she said in a low voice. "I took a--a liberty with my mistress in calling her by her name, and I--I had to account for it, and didn't tell quite the truth."
Tom was melted, yet his eye twinkled. "Last night or to-day?" he said.
"Both, sir," she whispered demurely. "And I'm afraid, sir, I took a liberty with you, too, talking nonsense and such like. But I'm sure, sir--I am very sorry, and I hope you won't tell my mistress."
The girl looked so pretty, so absurdly pretty in her penitence, and there was something so captivating in her manner, that Tom was seized with an inordinate desire to reassure her. "Tell, child? Not I!" he cried generously. "But I'll have a kiss for a forfeit. You owe me that," he continued, with one eye on the vicar, who had gone on while she tied her shoe. "Will you pay it now, my dear, or to-morrow with interest?"
"A kiss? Oh, fie, sir!"
"Why, what is the harm in a kiss?" Tom asked; and the rogue drew a little nearer.
"Oh, fie, sir!" Betty retorted, tossing her head, and moving farther from him. "What harm indeed? And you told me last night I should be as safe with you as my mistress need be!"