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?" "I went to a poor house to lodge, having some little money he had given me," the simple young thing answered. "'Twas an honest house, though mean and comfortless. And the next day I went back to his lodgings to question, but he had not come, and I would not go in, though the woman tried to make me enter, saying, Sir John would surely return soon, as he had the day before rid with my Lady Dunstanwolde and been to her house; and 'twas plain he had meant to come to his lodgings, for her ladyship had sent her lacquey thrice with a message." The hand with which Mistress Anne sate covering her eyes began to shake. My lady's own hand would have shaken had she not been so strong a creature. "And he has not yet returned, then?" she asked. "You have not seen him?" The girl shook her fair locks, weeping with piteous little sobs. "He has not," she cried, "and I know not what to do--and the great town seems full of evil men and wicked women. I know not which way to turn, for all plot wrong against me, and would drag me down to shamefulness--and back to my poor mother I cannot go." "Wherefore not, poor child?" my lady asked her. "I have not been made an honest, wedded woman, and none would believe my story, and--and he might come back." "And if he came back?" said her ladyship. At this question the girl slipped from her grasp and down upon her knees again, catching at her rich petticoat and holding it, her eyes searching the great lady's in imploring piteousness, her own streaming.