Robbie snatched a kiss.

“Oh you—­oh you—­oh! oh!  If I had known that you were so wicked—­oh!”

“Forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, or I will never let you go, never,” cried Robbie.

“Never?” Liza felt that she must forgive this tyrant.

“Well, if you’ll loosen this arm I’ll—­I’ll try.”

“Liza, how much do you love me?” inquired Robbie.

“Did you speak to me?”

“Oh, no, to crusty old ’Becca down the road.  How much do you love me?”

Robbie’s passion was curiously mathematical.

“Me?  How much?  About as much as you might put in your eye.”

Robbie pretended to look deeply depressed.  He dropped his head, but kept, nevertheless, an artful look out of the corner of the eye which was alleged to be the measure of his sweetheart’s affection.

Thinking herself no longer under the fire of Robbie’s glances, Liza’s affectation of stern disdain melted into a look of tenderness.

Robbie jerked his head up sharply.  The little woman was caught.  She revenged herself by assuming a haughty coldness.  But it was of no use.  Robbie laughed and crowed and bantered.

At this juncture Mattha Branth’et came into the cottage.

The weaver was obviously in a state of profound agitation.  He had just had a “fratch” with the Quaker preachers on the subject of election.

“I rub’t ‘m t’ wrang way o’ t’ hair,” said the old man, “when I axt ’em what for they were going aboot preaching if it were all settled aforehand who was to be damned and who was to be saved.  ’Ye’r a child of the devil,’ says one.  ‘Mebbee so,’ says I, ’and I dunnet know if the devil iver had any other relations; but if so, mebbee yersel’s his awn cousin.’”

It was hard on Matthew that, after upholding Quakerism for years against the sneers of the Reverend Nicholas Stevens, he should be thus disowned and discredited by the brotherhood itself.

“Tut! theer’s six o’ tean an’ hofe a duzzen of t’ tudder,” said the old sage, dismissing the rival theologians from his mind forever.

“Oh, Robbie, lad,” said Matthew, as if by a sudden thought, “John Jackson met Willy Ray coming frae Carlisle, and what think ye hes happent?”

“Nay, what?” said Robbie, turning pale again.

“Ralph Ray and Sim Stagg are condemned to death for t’ murder of auld Wilson.”

Robbie leapt to his feet.

“The devil!”

“Come, dunnet ye tak on like the Quakers,” said Matthew.

Robbie had caught up his coat and hat.

“Why, where are you going?” said Liza.

“Going?  Aye?  Going?”

“Yes, where?  You’re too weak to go anywhere.  You’ll have another fever.”

A light wagon was running on the road outside.  Reuben Thwaite was driving.

Robbie rushed to the door, and hailed him.

“Going off with thread again, Reuben?”