“This is brave news indeed,” cries he, “and easeth me beyond comprehension, for I could see clearly enough she was smitten with this painter, by her writing of nothing else; and seeing she could not get at his true name and condition, I felt some qualms as to how the matter might end.  But do tell me, Kit, is he an honest, wholesome sort of man?”

“As honest as the day,” says I, “and a nobler, handsomer man never breathed.”

“God be praised for all things,” says he, devoutly.  “Tell me he’s an Englishman, Kit—­as Moll did seem to think he was, spite his foreign name—­and my joy’s complete.”

“As true-born an Englishman as you are,” says I.

“Lord love him for it!” cries he.

Then coming down to particulars, I related the events of the past few days pretty much as I have writ them here, showing in the end how Mr. Godwin would have gone away, unknown rather than profit by his claim as Sir Richard Godwin’s kinsman, even though Moll should be no better than old Simon would have him believe, upon which he cries, “Lord love him for it, say I again!  Let us drink to their health.  Drink deep, Kit, for I’ve a fancy that no man shall put his lips to this mug after us.”

So I drank heartily, and he, emptying the jug, flung it behind the chimney, with another fervent ejaculation of gratitude.  Then a shade of sorrow falling on his face as he lay it in his hand, his elbow resting on the table: 

“I’d give best half of the years I’ve got to live,” says he, “to see ’em together, and grasp Mr. Godwin’s hand in mine.  But I’ll not be tempted to it, for I perceive clearly enough by what you tell me that my wayward tongue and weakness have been undoing us all, and ruining my dear Moll’s chance of happiness.  But tell me, Kit” (straightening himself up), “how think you this marriage will touch our affairs?”

“Only to better them.  For henceforth our prosperity is assured, which otherwise might have lacked security.”

“Aye, to be sure, for now shall we be all in one family with these Godwins, and this cousin, profiting by the estate as much as Moll, will never begrudge her giving us a hundred or two now and then, for rendering him such good service.”

“’Twill appease Moll’s compunctions into the bargain,” says I, heedlessly.

“What compunctions?”

“The word slipped me unintended,” stammers I; “I mean nothing.”

“But something your word must mean.  Come, out with it, Kit.”

“Well,” says I, “since this fondness has possessed her, I have observed a greater compunction to telling of lies than she was wont to have.”

“’Tis my fault,” answers he, sadly.  “She gets this leaning to honesty from me.”

“This very morning,” continues I, “she was, I truly believe, of two minds whether she should not confess to her sweetheart that she was not his cousin.”