"Well, these are queer goings-on," said the man. "There was a lady, Mrs. Everett, and she said--never mind now what she said. Tell me, Het, as you would speak the truth ef you were a-dying, what did yer want with Squire?" "Nothing. What should I want with him? I was just glad to see him again." "Why did you turn faint?" "It was the heat of the room." "Come on. Take my arm. Let's go out o' this." The farmer's tone was very fierce. He dragged Hetty's hand through his big arm, and strode away so quickly that she could scarcely keep up with him. "It hurts my side," she said, at last panting. "You think nothing hurts but your side," said the man. "There are worse aches than that." "What do you mean, George? How queer and rough you speak!" "Maybe I know more'n you think, young woman." "Know more than I think," she said. "There's nothing more to know." "Ain't there? P'raps I've found out the reason why your 'eart's been closed to me--p'raps I've got the key to that secret." "Oh, George, George, you know I'd love you ef I could." "P'raps I've got the key to that secret," repeated the farmer. "I'm not a bad feller--not bad to look at nor bad to live with--and I gived yer all I got--but never, God above is witness, never from the day I took yer to church, 'ave yer kissed me of your own free will. No, nor ever said a lovin' word to me--the sort of words that come so glib to the lips o' other young wives. You're like one who carries sum'mat at her heart. Maybe I guess to-night." "But there's nothing to guess," said Hetty. She was trembling, a sick fear took possession of her. "Ain't there? Why did you make an appointment to meet Squire alone?" "What in the world do you mean?" "None o' your soft sawder, now, Hetty. I know what I'm a-talking of. I crep' out of barn t'other way, and I 'eard what you said." "You heard," said Hetty, with a little scream. Then she suppressed it, and gave a little hysterical laugh. "You're welcome to hear," she continued. "There was nothing in it." "Worn't there? You seemed mighty eager to have a meetin' with 'im; much more set on it, I take it, than he wor to have a meetin' wi' you. Gents o' that sort don't care to be reminded o' the follies o' their youth. I seed a big frown coming up between his eyes when you wor so masterful, and when you pressed and pressed to see 'im. Why did yer say t'was life or death? I've got my clue at last, and look you 'ere, you meet Squire at your peril. There, that's my last word. You understand me?" CHAPTER XIX. The next day Vincent got up early. It was his wont to rise betimes. Small as his farm was he managed it well, superintended everything that went on in it, and did, when possible, the greater part of the work himself. He rose now from the side of his sleeping wife, looked for a moment at her fair, flower-like face, clenched his fist at a memory which came over him, and then stole softly out of the room.