“Oh, dear! an’ that’s true,” wailed Susan; and she threw herself into her mother’s arms, her big, babyish, blue eyes drowned in tears; her poor head, with its crown of golden hair, hidden on the bosom where it had so often lain in innocent infancy. “I was a wicked girl to deceive ’ee and dear Father, as was always so good to me. But he—Jim—said I wasn’t to tell no one, or he’d be gettin’ into trouble, as we wasn’t on the strength!” “And what mid that mean, my dear?” “I don’t know, Mother. Some soldiers’ talk. Some of ’em has leave to get married, an’ some hasn’t.” “Ah-h-h-h, ye mid ha’ knowed he was up to some tricks—ye couldn’t be married right that way. Why, where was your lines, my dear?” “He said he was a-keepin’ them for me, an’ he took me to a kind o’ tin buildin’, an’ said it was the soldiers’ chapel, and he knowed I always went to chapel, so he wouldn’t ax me to be married in church; and there was another man there, as he said was the minister. And he put the ring on my finger—Jim did—he did indeed”—and here Susan raised her head to look earnestly in her mother’s face—“and he did say the words, and all.” “There, there, no need to talk more on’t. Ye’ve been voolish, my maid, and he’ve a-been wicked; and you be left to pay for it all. But you’ve got Father and Mother to look to, and if you’ll do as I do bid ’ee, nobody need know o’ the trick as has been played on ’ee. There, slip on your dress, my dear, and pop this bonnet on, and–” “Mother, ’tis a widow’s bonnet,” gasped Susan. “Oh, don’t—don’t make me wear a widow’s bonnet! Oh, I can’t bear the sight of en; it do seem so unlucky, so dreadful!” “Now be still, Susan; I don’t want no idle talk about ’ee, an’ no insultin’ remarks passed, and I’ve a-made out a story and you be to keep to’t. You be the Widow Griggs—that be your name; and your husband, what was a soldier, have a-been killed in this here war.” “Oh, not killed; not killed!” cried the girl wildly. “Oh, Mother, don’t ’ee talk like that, for I can’t a-bear it. There, ’twould seem so wicked to be sayin’ sich things—the Lard mid make it come true. I can’t but feel as Jim be my husband; whatever he’ve a-done, and so bad as he mid be, I can’t ever feel anything else. He did mean to marry I some day when he’d got leave, and he’d ha’ done it if it hadn’t ha’ been for the war. If you call me a widow, I shall feel all the time as if Jim were really killed.” Mrs. Frizzell folded her arms and gazed at her resolutely and severely. “Susan, don’t let me hear ’ee talk like that—the man’s dead to you if he bain’t killed, an’ his name mustn’t ever be on your lips. I’m doin’ the best I can for ’ee, an’ I can’t think the Lard ’ud be angry with me for makin’ out a story what does no harm to nobody. As for that fellow, he be in the hands o’ the Lard—the Lard ’ull see to en. I leave en to the A’mighty.” Mrs. Frizzell spoke with a certain almost terrible significance which made poor Susie’s blood run cold.