‘I do not know. That is what old Betsy Davy told me. Papa never speaks of her. He has been an altered man since she left him. He put up the stone cross on the moor at the spot where he found her. I like to fancy there was something mysterious in her. I can’t ask papa, and Bab was—I mean Barbara—was too young at the time to remember anything about it.’ ‘This is very strange.’ ‘Betsy Davy says that my father was not properly married to her, because he could not get a priest to perform the ceremony without knowing what she was.’ ‘My dear Miss Eve, instead of listening to the cock-and-bull stories——’ ‘Mr. Jasper! How can you—how can you use such an expression? The story is very pretty and romantic, and not at all like things of this century. I dare say there is some truth in it.’ ‘I am far from any intention of offending you, dear young lady; but I venture to offer you a piece of advice. Do not listen to idle tales; do not encourage people of a lower class to speak to you about your mother; ask your father what you want to know, he will tell you; and take my word for it, romance there always must be in love, but there will be nothing of what you imagine, with a fancy set on fire by “Undine.”’ Her volatile mind had flown elsewhere. ‘Mr. Jasper,’ she said, ‘have you ever been to a theatre?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘O, I should like it above everything else. I dream of it. We have Inchbald’s “British Theatre” in the library, and it is my dearest reading. Barbara likes a cookery book or a book on farming; I cannot abide them. Do you know what Mr. Coyshe said the other day when I was rattling on before him and papa? He said I had missed my vocation, and ought to have been on the stage. What do you think?’ ‘I think a loving and merciful Providence has done best to put such a precious treasure here where it can best be preserved.’ ‘I don’t agree with you at all,’ said Eve, standing up. ‘I think Mr. Coyshe showed great sense. Anyhow, I should like to see a theatre—O, above everything in the world! Papa thinks of Rome or the Holy Land; but I say—a theatre. I can’t help it; I think it, and must say it. Good-bye! I have things my sister left that I must attend to. I wish she were back. Oh, Mr. Jasper, do not you?’ ‘Everyone will be pleased to welcome her home.’ ‘Because I have let everything go to sixes and sevens, eh?’ ‘For her own sake.’ ‘Well, I do miss her dreadfully, do not you?’ He did not answer. She cast him another good-bye, and danced off into the wood, swinging her hat by the blue ribands. CHAPTER XVI. WATT.