"Well, brother, you shall tell her then, for I am sure I daren't.
I don't mind doing the thing, since you talked to me that day, and
since I've got to know Ruth; but I do mind all the clatter people
will make about it."

"But Sally is not 'people.'"

"Oh, I see it must be done; she'll talk as much as all the other
persons put together, so that's the reason I call her 'people.' Shall
I call her?" (For the house was too homely and primitive to have
bells.)

Sally came, fully aware of what was now going to be told her, and
determined not to help them out in telling their awkward secret, by
understanding the nature of it before it was put into the plainest
language. In every pause, when they hoped she had caught the meaning
they were hinting at, she persisted in looking stupid and perplexed,
and in saying, "Well," as if quite unenlightened as to the end of
the story. When it was all complete and plain before her, she said,
honestly enough,

"It's just as I thought it was; and I think you may thank me for
having had the sense to put her into widow's caps, and clip off that
bonny brown hair that was fitter for a bride in lawful matrimony than
for such as her. She took it very well, though. She was as quiet as a
lamb, and I clipped her pretty roughly at first. I must say, though,
if I'd ha' known who your visitor was, I'd ha' packed up my things
and cleared myself out of the house before such as her came into it.
As it's done, I suppose I must stand by you, and help you through
with it; I only hope I shan't lose my character,--and me a parish
clerk's daughter."

"Oh, Sally! people know you too well to think any ill of you," said
Miss Benson, who was pleased to find the difficulty so easily got
over; for, in truth, Sally had been much softened by the unresisting
gentleness with which Ruth had submitted to the "clipping" of the
night before.

"If I'd been with you, Master Thurstan, I'd ha' seen sharp after you,
for you're always picking up some one or another as nobody else would
touch with a pair of tongs. Why, there was that Nelly Brandon's child
as was left at our door, if I hadn't gone to th' overseer we should
have had that Irish tramp's babby saddled on us for life; but I went
off and told th' overseer, and th' mother was caught."

"Yes," said Mr Benson, sadly, "and I often lie awake and wonder what
is the fate of that poor little thing, forced back on the mother who
tried to get quit of it. I often doubt whethe