Will caught her hand; he whispered; his voice burned hot with a child's jealousy. "'Tis said you are to wed Abraham Stripling, Ann, an' that the foreign doctor who wants to wed you, broke Abra'm's head with his pestle." Ann Hathaway laughed; her eyes were mocking now; she backed against the lichened trunk of a giant elm by the roadside, a young, beauteous thing, and looked at the boy in scorn. "I to marry Abraham Stripling! Child though you are, you know me better than that. Did I not just tell you I am free now--free? That I have held fast to my duty, and so come to where I might be free? Have held them at bay--family, cousins, elders, sweethearts--until now, the rest married and gone, and the tasks as they gave them up come to be mine, my mother needs me, and my life may be my own--and free. For who has come to wed me? Did I not just say I was--I am--free? A soul groping lonely in the dark? No man's hand has reached toward mine that I, a woman and a weakling, could not shake off. When the masterful hand, groping, seizes mine, I shall know it, and I--I will kiss it with my lips--and--and follow after." [Illustration: "'When the masterful hand, groping, seizes mine, I shall know it'"] She came back to him as one from an ecstasy. "And now, child, go on home. It is late. And hurry or Mary will be fretting. You have had your cake and eaten it. Now go pay for it. 'Discipline must be maintained,' says your Welsh schoolmaster. And sure he will flog you." XI But no one at home had missed him. The Henley Street house was full of hurry and confusion when he arrived. No one noticed him. The neighbors came in and out, Mistress Sadler and Mistress Snelling, and the foreign doctor who would like to wed Ann, or passed on up to a room above, where little sister Annie, named for Ann Hathaway, lay dying of a sudden croup. And all since morning, since Will stole away. He knows this thing called Life, this deep inbreathing, this joy of shout, of run, of leap, of vault. He knows--strong healthy young animal--he knows this thing. But the other--this strange thing called Death: the darkened room; Father with his head fallen on his breast standing at the lattice gazing out at nothing; Mother kneeling, one arm outstretched across the bed, her head fallen thereon, and Mistress Sadler trying to raise and lead her away; and this--this waxen whiteness framed in flaxen baby rings on the pillow--this little stiffening hand outside the linen cover? Will Shakespeare cries out. He has touched little sister Annie's hand and it is cold. [Illustration: "This strange thing called Death...."] XII And after that, things went worse in the Shakespeare household. All of John Shakespeare's ventures were proving failures. Debt pressed on every side. There began talk again of a mortgage on the Asbies estate, and this time none could say nay. Dad went about with his head sunk on his breast, and at home sat staring in moody silence.