ince the death of the King had gone abroad from Oare parish,
that many inquirers would only wink, and lay a finger on the lip, as if
to say, 'you know well enough, but see not fit to tell me.' And before
the end arrived, those people believed that they had been right all
along, and that we had concealed the truth from them.

For I myself became involved (God knows how much against my will and my
proper judgment) in the troubles, and the conflict, and the cruel work
coming afterwards. If ever I had made up my mind to anything in all my
life, it was at this particular time, and as stern and strong as could
be. I had resolved to let things pass,--to hear about them gladly, to
encourage all my friends to talk, and myself to express opinion upon
each particular point, when in the fullness of time no further doubt
could be. But all my policy went for nothing, through a few touches of
feeling.

One day at the beginning of July, I came home from mowing about noon, or
a little later, to fetch some cider for all of us, and to eat a morsel
of bacon. For mowing was no joke that year, the summer being wonderfully
wet (even for our wet country), and the swathe falling heavier over the
scythe than ever I could remember it. We were drenched with rain almost
every day; but the mowing must be done somehow; and we must trust to God
for the haymaking.

In the courtyard I saw a little cart, with iron brakes underneath it,
such as fastidious people use to deaden the jolting of the road; but few
men under a lord or baronet would be so particular. Therefore I wondered
who our noble visitor could be. But when I entered the kitchen-place,
brushing up my hair for somebody, behold it was no one greater than our
Annie, with my godson in her arms, and looking pale and tear-begone.
And at first she could not speak to me. But presently having sat down a
little, and received much praise for her baby, she smiled and blushed,
and found her tongue as if she had never gone from us.

'How natural it all looks again! Oh, I love this old kitchen so! Baby
dear, only look at it wid him pitty, pitty eyes, and him tongue out of
his mousy! But who put the flour-riddle up there. And look at the pestle
and mortar, and rust I declare in the patty pans! And a book, positively
a dirty book, where the clean skewers ought to hang! Oh, Lizzie, Lizzie,
Lizzie!'

'You may just as well cease lamenting,' I said, 'for you can't alter
Lizzie's nature, and you will only mak