painter, by her writing of nothing else; and seeing she could not get at
his true name and condition, I felt some qualms as to how the matter
might end. But do tell me, Kit, is he an honest, wholesome sort of man?"

"As honest as the day," says I, "and a nobler, handsomer man never
breathed."

"God be praised for all things," says he, devoutly. "Tell me he's an
Englishman, Kit--as Moll did seem to think he was, spite his foreign
name--and my joy's complete."

"As true-born an Englishman as you are," says I.

"Lord love him for it!" cries he.

Then coming down to particulars, I related the events of the past few
days pretty much as I have writ them here, showing in the end how Mr.
Godwin would have gone away, unknown rather than profit by his claim as
Sir Richard Godwin's kinsman, even though Moll should be no better than
old Simon would have him believe, upon which he cries, "Lord love him
for it, say I again! Let us drink to their health. Drink deep, Kit, for
I've a fancy that no man shall put his lips to this mug after us."

So I drank heartily, and he, emptying the jug, flung it behind the
chimney, with another fervent ejaculation of gratitude. Then a shade of
sorrow falling on his face as he lay it in his hand, his elbow resting
on the table:

"I'd give best half of the years I've got to live," says he, "to see 'em
together, and grasp Mr. Godwin's hand in mine. But I'll not be tempted
to it, for I perceive clearly enough by what you tell me that my wayward
tongue and weakness have been undoing us all, and ruining my dear Moll's
chance of happiness. But tell me, Kit" (straightening himself up), "how
think you this marriage will touch our affairs?"

"Only to better them. For henceforth our prosperity is assured, which
otherwise might have lacked security."

"Aye, to be sure, for now shall we be all in one family with these
Godwins, and this cousin, profiting by the estate as much as Moll, will
never begrudge her giving us a hundred or two now and then, for
rendering him such good service."

"'Twill appease Moll's compunctions into the bargain," says I,
heedlessly.

"What compunctions?"

"The word slipped me unintended," stammers I; "I mean nothing."

"But something your word must mean. Come, out with it, Kit."

"Well," says I, "since this fondness has possessed her, I have observed
a greater compunction to telling of lies than she was wont to have."

"'Tis my fault," answers he, sadly. "She gets this