"In truth, no," said Judith, carelessly. "I lent them to the young gentleman, Leofric Hope."
"Judith!" her friend exclaimed, with frightened eyes.
"What then?"
"To one you know nothing of? You have parted with these sheets—that are so valuable?"
"Nay, nay, good mouse," said she; "you know the sheets are cast away as useless. And I but lent them to him for an hour or two to lighten the tedium of his solitude. Nor was that all, good Prue, if I must tell thee the truth; I would fain have him know that my father can do something worth speaking of as well as his friend Ben Jonson, and perchance even better; what think you?"
"You have seen him again, then—this morning?"
"Even so," Judith answered, calmly.
"Judith, why would you run into such danger?" her friend said, in obvious distress. "In truth I know not what 'twill come to. And now there is this farther bond in this secret commerce—think you that all this can remain unknown? Your meeting with him must come to some one's knowledge—indeed it must, sweetheart."
"Nay, but this time you have hit the mark," complacently. "If you would assure yourself, good Prue, that the young gentleman is no grisly ghost or phantom, methinks you could not do better than ask Tom Quiney, who saw him this very morning—and saw us speaking together, as I guess."
"He saw you!" Prudence exclaimed. "And what said he?"