I got together six hundred pounds (out of the sum left us after paying Don Sanchez his ten thousand), and delivered ’em to Mr. Godwin against his note of hand, telling him at the same time that, having slept upon his proposal, I was resolved to be his steward for three months, with freedom on both sides to alter our position, according to our convenience, at the end of that time, and would serve him and his lady to the best of my power.  Thanking me very heartily for my friendly service to him (though, God knows, with little reason), he presently left us.  And Moll, coming back from taking tender leave of him at her gates, appeared very downcast and pensive.  However, after moping an hour in her chamber, she comes to me in her hood, and begs I will take her a walk to dispel her vapours.  So we out across the common, it being a fine, brisk, dry morning and the ground hard with a frost.  Here, being secure from observation, I showed her how I had settled matters with Mr. Godwin, dividing the estate in such a manner as would enable her to draw what funds she pleased, without let, hindrance, or any inconvenient question.

At this she draws a deep sigh, fixing her eyes sadly enough on the perspective, as if she were thinking rather of her absent lover than the business in hand.  Somewhat nettled to find she prized my efforts on her behalf so lightly, I proceeded to show her the advantages of this arrangement, adding that, to make her property the surer, I had consented to manage both her affairs and Mr. Godwin’s when they were married.

“And so,” says I, in conclusion, “you may have what money you want, and dispose of it as you will, and I’ll answer for it Mr. Godwin shall never be a penny the wiser.”

“Do what you find is necessary,” says she, with passion.  “But for mercy’s sake say no more on this matter to me.  For all these hints do stab my heart like sharp knives.”

Not reading rightly the cause of her petulance, I was at first disposed to resent it; but, reflecting that a maiden is no more responsible for her tongue than a donkey for his heels in this season of life (but both must be for ever a-flying out at some one when parted from the object of their affections), I held my peace; and so we walked on in sullen silence for a space; then, turning suddenly upon me, she cries in a trembling voice: 

“Won’t you say something to me?  Can’t you see that I am unhappy?”

And now, seeing her eyes full of tears, her lips quivering, and her face drawn with pain, my heart melted in a moment; so, taking her arm under mine and pressing it to my side, I bade her be of good cheer, for her lover would return in a day or two at the outside.

“No, not of him,—­not of him,” she entreats.  “Talk to me of indifferent things.”

So, thinking to turn her thoughts to another furrow, I told her how I had been to visit her father at Greenwich.

“My father,” says she, stopping short.  “Oh, what a heartless, selfish creature am I!  I have not thought of him in my happiness.  Nay, had he been dead I could not have forgot him more.  You saw him—­is he well?”