Then, while he yet fumed, she suddenly grew grave.

“Was it truth he was telling?”

“Truth?” he echoed.

“Yes:  about Lincoln Fair?”

“Oh, the boxing-booth, you mean?  Well, my dear, there was something in it, to be sure.  You wouldn’t have me be a milksop, would you?”

“No-o,” she mused.  “But I meant what he said about—­about those women.  Was that true?”

He was on the point of answering with a lie; but while he hesitated she helped him by adding, “I am not a child, dear.  I am twenty-seven, and older than you.  Please be honest with me, always.”

He was young, but had an instinct for understanding women.  He revised the first lie and rejected it for a more cunning one.  “It was before I met you,” he said humbly.  “He made the worst of it, of course, but I had rather you knew the truth.  You are angry?”

Hetty sighed.  “I am sorry.  It seems to make our—­our love—­ different somehow.”

The bargewoman brought out their tea.  She had heard nothing of the scrimmage on the bank, so swiftly had it happened and with so few words spoken.

“Halloa—­is the tinker gone?  And I’d cut off a crust for him.  Well, I can eat it myself, I suppose; and after all he was low company for the likes of you, though any company comes well to folks that can’t pick and choose.”  In the act of setting herself on the cabin top she sat up stiffly and listened.

“There’s a horse upon the high road,” she announced.

“A highwayman, perhaps, if all company’s welcome to you.”

“He won’t come this way,” said the woman placidly.  “I loves to lie close to the road like this and see the wagons and coaches rolling by all day:  for ’tis a dull life, always on the water.  Now you wouldn’t believe what a pleasure it gives me, to have you two here a-lovering, nor how many questions I’d put if you’d let me.  When is it to be, my dear?”—­addressing Hetty—­“But you won’t answer me, I know.  You’re wishing me farther, and go I will as soon as you’ve drunk your tay.  Well, sir, I hope you’ll take care of her:  for the pretty she is, I could kiss her myself.  May I?” she asked suddenly, taking Hetty’s empty cup; and Hetty blushed and let her.  “God send you children, you beauty!”

She paused with a cup in either hand, and in the act of squeezing herself backwards through the small cabin-door.  “La, the red you’ve gone!  I can see it with no help more than the bit of moon.  ’Tis a terrible thing to be childless, and for that you can take my word.”  Wagging her head she vanished.

Left to themselves the two sat silent.  The sound of the horse’s hoofs died away down the road towards Kelstein.  Had Hetty known, her father was the horseman, with Patty riding pillion behind him.  Over the frozen floods came the note of a church clock, borne on the almost windless air.

“Five o’clock?” Hetty sprang up.  “Time to be going, and past.”