"If all the world knew, 'twould, but then nobody don't know, and that's the best way for all true lovers." "Nevertheless, Betty, I feel uneasy." "'Tis only the stirring of your blood, my dear. Only to think," went on the confidante, "that last sweet Spring time you was building great cowslip balls in the green meadows, and now you are quite grown up with a bow of your own to arm you through the minivets and gawottes, so grand as may be." "Yes, love makes one grow old, Betty. I've aged very much these weeks." "Well, and 'twouldn't be right otherwise, for Life bean't all a long sweet April month, my pretty one." "Then truly, dear Betty, you swear you think there is no harm in what I have done?" "Oh, my dear, harm? Why, what harm could there be with your great fat Betty to watch and guard 'ee?" "Still, I'm not sure, Betty. There's something tells me not to be sure." "Then, do 'ee listen hard to me, my dear, while I tell 'ee what I do think about life. Life! 'Tis a garden and 'tis a wilderness, and between them there's a gaate and 'tis a kissing gaate. The wilderness is fine for children--a great open plaace fit for scampering Jack hares and such like, but bare enough and bleak enough when you do grow old, and then you're too fat to get through that kissing gaate, and then you do wish wi' all your might and main that when you was young you'd gotten into the garden among the sweet flowers." Betty stopped, exhausted by the allegory. "Yes, Betty, that is all very well, but you must go through the gate with the person whom you love for ever and a day." "Nay, you can meet him inside and say Good-day and thank you kindly to the arm you went in on." "I don't believe you give me good advice. If I told you that to-morrow morning I was going to run away with Mr. Amor to Gretna Green, what would you say?" "Oh, God preserve you from the wicked thought, Gretna Green or any other such unlawful heathenish village green!" "There you see," complained Phyllida, "you do not take me seriously, and it was foolish of me ever to tell you about this evening. But now that I have told you, you must never breathe a word to a living soul--never--never--promise! "I do promise," said Betty. "With the old rhyme--till Christmas--you remember?" Betty stood up, while a ritual, sacred to the childhood of Phyllida, was solemnly enacted. In a monotonous whispered chaunt, Betty promised: "_I will not tell at primrose tide, At cherry tide I'll silent be, At barley harvest I'll be dumb Till Christmas come and set me free._" Phyllida was satisfied that her indiscreet confidence was safely locked up in Betty's bosom, capacious, homely, sweet-savoured as an apple-closet.