And then, seeing the tears refilling her eyes, he hastily pulled out his handkerchief again and wiped them as they fell, saying, "But if you cannot--if you cannot (don't cry so fast!)--if you cannot, then give me your key (dear Jennifer, please dry up!) to Gillian's Well-House, because you were glad that my tale ended gladly, and also because all lovers, no matter of what age, are green enough, and chiefly because my handkerchief's sopping." Then Jennifer caught his hands in hers and whispered, "Oh, Martin! are they? ALL lovers?--are they green enough?" "God help them, yes!" said Martin Pippin. She dropped his hands, leaving her key in them, and looked up at him with wet lashes, but happiness behind them. So he stooped and kissed the last tears from her eyes. Since his handkerchief had become quite useless for the purpose. And she stole back to her place, and he lay down in his, and Jennifer dreamed that she was baking gingerbread, and Martin that he was eating it. "Maids! maids! maids!" It was Old Gillman on the heels of dawn. "A pest on him and all farmers," groaned Martin, "who would harvest men's slumbers as soon as they're sown." "Get into hiding!" commanded Joscelyn. "I will not budge," said Martin. "I am going to sleep again. For at that moment I had a lion in one hand and a unicorn in the other--" "WILL you conceal yourself!" whispered Joscelyn, with as much fury as a whisper can compass. "And the lion had comfits in his crown, and the unicorn a gilded horn. And both were so sticky and spicy and sweet--" Joscelyn flung herself upon her knees before him, spreading her yellow skirts which barely concealed him, as Old Gillman thrust his head through the hawthorn gap. "Good morrow, maids," he grunted. "--that I knew not, dear Mistress Joscelyn," murmured Martin, "which to bite first." "Good morrow, master!" cried the milkmaids loudly; and they fluttered their petticoats like sunshine between the man at the hedge and the man in the grass. "Is my daughter any merrier this morning?" "No, master," said Jennifer, "yet I think I see smiles on their way." "If they lag much longer," muttered the farmer, "they'll be on the wrong side of her mouth when they do come. For what sort of a home will she return to?--a pothouse! and what sort of a father?--a drunkard! And the fault's hers that deprives him of the drink he loved in his sober days. Gillian!" he exclaimed, "when will ye give up this child's whim to learn by experience, and take an old man's word for it?" But Gillian was as deaf to him as to the cock crowing in the barnyard. "Come fetch your portion," said Old Gillman to the milkmaids, "since there's no help for it. And good day to ye, and a better morrow." "Wait a bit, master!" entreated Jennifer, "and tell me if Daisy, my Lincoln Red, lacks for anything."