“I do. I have fifteen shillings a week, we might see-saw on that. And I’ve got strong arms, and a good cottage, and a large garden. We might see-saw on that. And—I love you with all my heart.” “But is there to be see-saw in that?” “None—fast as a nail. Will you?” “Well, if it must be, it must.” That is how it came about. The banns had been called and the marriage day had arrived. The parson was to be at the church at ten o’clock. “Mother,” said Prue the evening before. “There is my white confirmation gown and the veil the young ladies at the Hall gave me—I will wear that.” “And you must have flowers.” “Yes—white.” Now it so fell out that just before the time came for going to church Mrs. Worden exclaimed— “Lor’ a mussy! The water be forgot. There ain’t a drop in the house, and there’ll be folk coming, and there must be tea for some, and, I reckon, gin and water for others, and there is all the washing up after, and, dear life, one can get along without bread, but never without water. Whatever shall I do?” “I’ll run to the well with the pitchers.” “But, Prue, you’m in your white dress.” “I shall not stain it. It will not take me ten minutes.” “I’d go myself but for my leg as is so bad,” said Mrs. Worden. Then Prue caught up the pitchers and tripped away, past the old gnarled oak and the Conjuring Rock, down the path to the old quarry pit. Never shall I forget what ensued. There was a cluster of people about the church gate. These were friends ready to pelt with rice. The parson was in waiting. The bridegroom and his best man had arrived. Prue had been a favourite at the Hall, and the squire’s daughters were there, all smiles, and they had brought with them a present which was to be put into Prue’s hand as she went blushing like a June hedge-rose down the church avenue. And the ringers were all there, without their coats, in the tower, waiting and not oblivious of the fact that after a merry peal they would be called to the cottage to refresh themselves. The party waited, then became impatient. Some ran along the road to see whether the bride were coming in sight. But all they saw was a child running. Presently the child came up breathless. “Please—Mrs. Worden says you’re all to come—something has happened. She’s in that state, she couldn’t say all.” Still no suspicion of real evil occurred. Some little misfortune perhaps. “It’s Prue. It’s something to Prue,” gasped the child. Then the tidings ran like lightning through all assembled. The last to hear it was George Kennaway, who was in the church; but when he did hear he ran and outstripped them all. He first reached the cottage. Mrs. Worden was then in a condition of terror and distress that almost bereft her of her senses. “Prue—” she said, “went to the well—after water—my poor legs—I couldn’t get down—but she went for the water—two pitchers. I—have—I——”