And then, turning about, he stands irresolute, as not knowing whither he shall go to find shelter for his wife.  For very shame, he does not take her to the village inn, to be questioned by gaping servants and landlord, who, ere long, must catch the flying news of her shameful condition and overthrow.  A faint light in the lattice of Anne Fitch’s cottage catches his eye, and he crosses to her door, still humbly followed by poor Moll.  There he finds the thumb-piece gone from the latch, to him a well-known sign that Mother Fitch has gone out a-nursing; so, pulling the hidden string he wots of, he lifts the latch within, and the door opens to his hand.  A rush is burning in a cup of oil upon the table, casting a feeble glimmer round the empty room.  He closes the door when Moll has entered, sets a chair before the hearth, and rakes the embers together to give her warmth.

“Forgive me, oh, forgive me!” cries Moll, casting herself at his feet as he turns, and clasping his knees to her stricken heart.

[Illustration:  “FORGIVE ME, OH, FORGIVE ME!”]

“Forgive you!” says he, bitterly.  “Forgive you for dragging me down to the level of rogues and thieves, for making me party to this vile conspiracy of plunder.  A conspiracy that, if it bring me not beneath the lash of Justice, must blast my name and fame for ever.  You know not what you ask.  As well might you bid me take you back to finish the night in drunken riot with those others of our gang.”

“Oh, no, not now! not now!” cries Moll, in agony.  “Do but say that some day long hence, you will forgive me.  Give me that hope, for I cannot live without it.”

“That hope’s my fear!” says he.  “I have known men who, by mere contact with depravity, have so dulled their sense of shame that they could make light of sins that once appalled them.  Who knows but that one day I may forgive you, chat easily upon this villany, maybe, regret I went no further in it.”

“Oh, God forbid that shall be of my doing!” cries Moll, springing to her feet.  “Broken as I am, I’ll not accept forgiveness on such terms.  Think you I’m like those plague-stricken wretches who, of wanton wickedness, ran from their beds to infect the clean with their foul ill?  Not I.”

“I spoke in heat,” says Mr. Godwin, quickly.  “I repent even now what I said.”

“Am I so steeped in infamy,” continues she, “that I am past all cure?  Think,” adds she, piteously, “I am not eighteen yet.  I was but a child a year ago, with no more judgment of right and wrong than a savage creature.  Until I loved you, I think I scarcely knew the meaning of conscience.  The knowledge came when I yearned to keep no secret from you.  I do remember the first struggle to do right.  ’Twas on the little bridge; and there I balanced awhile, ’twixt cheating you and robbing myself.  And then, for fear you would not marry me, I dared not own the truth.  Oh, had I thought you’d only keep me for your mistress, I’d have told you I was not your cousin.  Little as this is, there’s surely hope in’t.  Is it more impossible that you, a strong man, should lift me, than that I, a weak girl,—­no more than that,—­should drag you down?”