‘But that is just my difficulty, and if you will listen to me I shall explain it. You cannot but see, Anne, that you are scarce in my class, as you say, and for that reason ’twill be better to keep the matter private, else my father will cut me off with a shilling. But if you will marry me privately, Anne, I swear to you I’ll be a good husband to you.’ Anne had been listening intently; but here she suddenly held up her hand. ‘There,’ she cried, ‘I’ll have you with no promises if I have you at all. I’ll take you as I know you, sir, and trust you but so far as I sees you.’ ‘But you will trust me, Anne?’ he said. ‘No. I’ll never trust no man again this side time. But I’ll come an’ live along of you, sir, if so be I’m done with work and care for ever.’ ‘Anne, Anne, do not be so bitter,’ said Meadowes. Anne stood looking at him silently for a moment, then she laughed. ‘’Tis like I’m marrying you for love, sir?’ she said. ‘Well, I have done what I could for you,’ said Meadowes (but he blushed hotly as he spoke. ‘_I am a devil_,’ he said to himself). ‘You have, sir, one way, but now you’ve showed your hand, so to say. I knew as it would be this way some day—I’ve had lovers an’ lovers by the score. Not but that you’ve been civil and taken your time, sir. Well, as I do say, sir, you be kind and I’ll take you for that. But ’tis not for love, sir. I have no heart left in me now, but a stone where it once was. A woman she do have two throws o’ the dice in her life—one’s love an’ t’other’s money. Lose the first; you’d best, if you’re a wise woman, have a try for the second, for with never the one nor t’other you be in a sad case.’ Meadowes listened gravely to this, Anne’s gospel of prudence. ‘Well,’ he said at length, ‘that’s your way of thinking, Anne, and mayhap mine is not so different—to take what I can get.’ ‘What are you gettin’, sir?’ asked Anne, turning suddenly to him. ‘Lor’ sakes, sir! what hath gone agin you in life that you take second best so soon?’ ‘Second best?’ queried Meadowes. ‘Ay, second best. You’ll not make me believe as how you are wedding for love, sir.’ ‘I—I am very fond of you,’ Meadowes began, but Anne stopped him impatiently. ‘Not you, sir. I’m rarely fine-looking, an’ men be terrible fools. You’ve a mind to marry—that’s short and long for it,—but for love——’ The silence that Anne ended her sentence with was more expressive than words. Then she turned and laid her hand in his. ‘Here, sir,’ she said, ‘I’ll ask no questions. Mayhap you’ve had your story like myself. Leastways you’ve been kind to me, and I’ll be a good wife to you if you’re wishful to marry with me. Like enough some day we may both forget——’ She turned hastily away with a sob that would not be kept back. ‘Shall we say Friday of next week, then, Anne?’ said Meadowes, passing his arm round her and patting her shoulder very kindly. ‘When you please, sir.’ ‘And we shall be married here, not in church, for the reason I have mentioned?’