owly, and
looking at the woman keenly from underneath his shaggy eyebrows. 'I
came but to ask thee for shelter from the storm; and for a little
meat, if thou hast any to set before me.'

'To ask _thee_ for shelter.' 'If _thou_ hast any meat.' The unusual
form of address caught Moll's ear. She looked more closely at her
visitor. Yes, his lower limbs were not covered with homely Yorkshire
frieze; they were encased in odd garments that must surely be made of
leather, since the snowflakes lay upon them in crisp wreaths and
wrinkles before they melted. She had heard of the strange being who
was visiting those parts and she had no desire to make his
acquaintance. 'Hey, lasses!' she called to her maids at the far end of
the tavern parlour, 'here is the man in leather breeches himself, come
to pay us a visit this wild night!'

A shout of laughter went up from the men at their tankards. 'The man
in leather breeches!' 'Send him out again into the storm! We'll have
none of his company here, the spoil sport!'

Moll nodded assent, and returning to her unwelcome guest, said
shortly, 'Meat there is none for you here,' and moved towards the
door, where the Stranger still stood, as if to close it upon him.

But the man was not to be so easily dismissed.

'Hast thou then milk?' he asked.

Moll laughed aloud. A man who did not want ale should not have milk;
no money to be made out of that; especially this night of all nights,
when every drop would be wanted for her Ladyship's butter.

Lies were part of Moll's regular stock-in-trade. She lied now, with
the ease of long habit.

'You will get no shelter here,' she said roughly, 'and as for milk,
there is not a drop in the house.'

The Stranger looked at her. He spoke no words for a full minute, but
as his eyes pierced her through and through, she knew that he knew
that she had lied. The knowledge made her angry. She repeated her
words with an oath. The Stranger made as if to turn away; then, almost
reluctantly but very tenderly, as if he were being drawn back in spite
of himself: 'Hast thou then cream?' he asked. Yet, though his tone was
persuasive, his brows were knitted as he stood looking down upon the
angry woman.

'Not as if he cared about the cream, but as if he cared about me,'
Moll said herself, long after. But at the time: 'No, nor cream either.
On my soul, there is not a drop in the house,' she repeated, more
fiercely than before.

But, even as she spoke, she saw tha