"Out upon his love. As he loves Anno Beckley, and every woman he meets. Shame on thee, girl--for shame!" She smiled sadly as she still gazed up in his face. "You don't mean this, father, dear," she said. "You don't think I should be so silly as to go to Mother Goodhugh for what you say?" "I do," he cried, harshly. "And you don't in your heart think that I have been to see Gil." "I tell thee, I do," he cried. "And what is more, you don't think your little girl would play you false." "What?" he cried, "has not Gil been at thy window?" "Yes, father," she said; "as he has scores of times when we were boy and girl together; but I have bidden him come no more. I never thought harm of it--only that it was pleasant folly," she added, dreamily. "Out upon such folly!" he cried. "Gil will not come again, and I shall try to see him no more, dear, till you bid us meet; and you do not believe that I should ever deceive you." "You turn me round your finger, child," he cried, catching her to his breast, and kissing her passionately. "No, no, no; I don't believe you went to that old woman for such trash, nor to meet Gil Carr. I know you couldn't deceive me, my darling; and if I am harsh to thee it is for thy good. Ah! Tit, Tit, what a little witch thou art!" "Don't, father!" she cried, starting from him with a cry of pain. "What is it, my bird? What have I done?" "You called me a witch," she said, with a slight shudder, but trying to laugh it off. "Well! an' if I did?" he said, laughing. "It was foolish to mind," she said; "but Mother Goodhugh just now was angry with me, and called me witch, and uttered threats." "Against thee?" cried the founder, angrily. "I say, then, let her curses return upon her own head, witch that she is herself. She shall go from Roehurst before this time to-morrow." "Nay, nay, father," cried Mace, hastily; "don't visit her mad ravings upon her. Let her rest. Poor thing! she's crazed with grief. Let her be--for my sake, let her be." "What, and let her some day bring evil upon us by her witcheries?" "What, and is my stout, brave father going to have faith in what yon silly woman says!" cried Mace, laughing. "Come, father, promise me you will not have her touched." "I'll promise thee anything, child," he said, smoothing her soft hair, and bending down to kiss her cheek. "Anything, father?" she cried. "Not quite, Mace," he said with a sigh; "but anything that is for thy good;" and they walked on through the wood together, the old man smiling and loitering as his companion kept stooping to pick some bright flower, for it put him in mind of her childhood, when sweet Mace and the wild flowers seemed each to belong to each. Now it was the bright yellow meadow vetchling, now the brilliant orange-tinted lotus, and then long sprays of the purple-blossomed tufted vetch.