“Go on, innocent thing,” my lady said; and she turned aside to Anne, flashing from her eyes unseen a great blaze, and speaking in a low and hurried voice.  “God’s house,” she said—­“God’s prayers—­God’s songs of praise—­he used them all to break a tender heart, and bring an innocent life to ruin—­and yet was he not struck dead?”

Anne hid her face and shuddered.

“He was a gentleman,” the poor young thing cried, sobbing—­“and I no fit match for him, but that he loved me.  ’Tis said love makes all equal; and he said I was the sweetest, innocent young thing, and without me he could not live.  And he told my mother that he was not rich or the fashion now, and had no modish friends or relations to flout any poor beauty he might choose to wed.”

“And he would marry you?” my lady’s voice broke in.  “He said that he would marry you?”

“A thousand times, your ladyship, and so told my mother, but said I must come to town and be married at his lodgings, or ’twould not be counted a marriage by law, he being a town gentleman, and I from the country.”

“And you came,” said Mistress Anne, down whose pale cheeks the tears were running—­“you came at his command to follow him?”

“What day came you up to town?” demands my lady, breathless and leaning forward.  “Went you to his lodgings, and stayed you there with him,—­even for an hour?”

The poor child gazed at her, paling.

“He was not there!” she cried.  “I came alone because he said all must be secret at first; and my heart beat so with joy, my lady, that when the woman of the house whereat he lodges let me in I scarce could speak.  But she was a merry woman and good-natured, and only laughed and cheered me when she took me to his rooms, and I sate trembling.”

“What said she to you?” my lady asks, her breast heaving with her breath.

“That he was not yet in, but that he would sure come to such a young and pretty thing as I, and I must wait for him, for he would not forgive her if she let me go.  And the while I waited there came a man in bands and cassock, but he had not a holy look, and late in the afternoon I heard him making jokes with the woman outside, and they both laughed in such an evil way that I was affrighted, and waiting till they had gone to another part of the house, stole away.”

“But he came not back that night—­thank God!” my lady said—­“he came not back.”

The girl rose from her knees, trembling, her hands clasped on her breast.

“Why should your ladyship thank God?” she says, pure drops falling from her eyes.  “I am so humble, and had naught else but that great happiness, and it was taken away—­and you thank God.”

Then drops fell from my lady’s eyes also, and she came forward and caught the child’s hand, and held it close and warm and strong, and yet with her full lip quivering.

“’Twas not that your joy was taken away that I thanked God,” said she.  “I am not cruel—­God Himself knows that, and when He smites me ’twill not be for cruelty.  I knew not what I said, and yet—­tell me what did you then?  Tell me?”