"And I'm in the same case exactly," said I, and laughed outright. I had little use for money at the Hanyards, least of all in the pockets of my Sunday best, and not until she told me her plight did I realize the fact that in the elation of starting from home, I had forgotten that money might be necessary. Though I laughed, I watched her closely. Now she would break down. No woman's heart could stand the shock. "My possessions," she said, "are precisely two handkerchiefs, one of Madame du Pont's washballs, and most of a piece of the famous marry-me-quick." I had been mistaken. She made no ado about our serious situation, but spoke with a grave humour that fetched me greatly. "Quite a lengthy inventory," I replied. "My contributions to the common stock are--" and I fumbled in my pockets--"item, one handkerchief; item, a pocket-knife; item, one pipe and half a paper of tobacco; item, one flask, two-thirds full of Mistress Kate Wheatman's priceless peppermint cordial, the sovereign remedy against fatigue, cold, care, and the humours; item, something unknown which has been flopping against my hip and is, by the outward feel of it, a thing to rejoice over, to wit, one of Kate's pasties." I pushed my hand down for it, and then laughed louder than ever, as I drew forth my dumpy little Virgil. "Item," I concluded, "the works of the divine master, P. Vergilius Maro, hidden in my pocket by that mischievous minx and monkey, Kate Wheatman of the Hanyards." And I told the story. "Then if Kate had not hidden your beloved Virgil, you would not have gone fishing?" "I'm sure I shouldn't." "Life turns on trifles, Master Wheatman, and to a pretty girl's sisterly jest I owe everything that has happened since I first saw you on the river bank." "We owe it, madam," I corrected gently, and I turned to go on, for I saw that she was moved and troubled at the evil she thought she had brought on me. Evil! I was enjoying every breath I drew and every step I took, and my heart was like a live coal in the midst of my bosom. "Have no fear, Mistress Margaret," said I cheerfully, sweeping my hand out. "There's broad Staffordshire before us, a goodly land full of meat and malt and money, and we'll have our share of it." "But you'll have to steal it for me." "'Convey the wise it call," "I quoted. "That's better," and she smiled up at me in the moonlight. "Virgil puts you right above my poor wits, but say you love Shakespeare too, and we shall have one of the great things of life in common." "I do, madam, but you must learn to rate things at their true value. You speak French?" "Oh yes." "And Italian?" "Yes." "And play the harpsichord?" "Yes." "Then, madam, I am a half-educated boor compared with you, for I know none of these things. But though I do not know the French or Italian for marry-me-quick, if you will get it out of your pocket, I'll show you the Staffordshire for half of it."