That was the saddest summer ever I had.  The roses was nothing to me, nor the lavender neither, that I had always been so fond of; and as for the raspberries, I don’t believe I should have cared if there hadn’t been one on the canes; and even the little chickens, I thought them a bother, and—­it goes to my heart to say it—­a whole sitting was eaten by the rats in consequence.  Everything seemed to go wrong.  The butter was twice as long a-coming as ever I knowed it, and the broad beans got black fly, and father lost half his hay with the weather.  If it had been me that had done something unkind, father would have said it was a Providence on me.  But, of course, I knew better than to speak up to my own father, with his hay lying rotting and smoking in the ten-acre, and telling him he was a-being judged.

Well, the harvest was got in.  It was neither here nor there.  I have seen better years and I have seen worse.  And October come.  I was getting to bed one night; at least, I hadn’t begun to undress, for I was sitting there with William’s letters, as he had wrote me from time to time while he was in Somerset, and I was reading them over and thinking of William, silly fashion, as a young girl will, and wishing it had been me was a Roman Catholic and him a Protestant, because then I could have gone into a convent like the wicked people in father’s story-books.  I was in that state of silliness, you see, that I would have liked to do something for William, even if it was only going into a convent—­to be bricked up alive, perhaps.  And then I hears a scratch, scratch, scratching, and ‘Drat the mice,’ says I; but I didn’t take any notice, and then there was a little tap, tapping, like a bird would make with its beak on the window-pane, and I went and opened it, thinking it was a bird that had lost its way and was coming foolish-like, as they will, to the light.  So I drew the curtain and opened the window, and it was—­William!

‘Oh, go away, do,’ says I; ‘father will hear you.’

He had climbed up by the pear-tree that grew right and left up the wall, and—­

‘I ask your pardon,’ says he, ’my pretty sweetheart, for making so free as to come to your window this time of night, but there didn’t seem any other way.’

‘Oh, go, dear William, do go,’ says I. I expected every moment to see the door open and father put his head in.

‘I’m not going,’ said William, ’till you tell me where you’ll meet me to say “Good-bye” and “God bless you,” like you said in the letter.’

Though I knew the whole parish better than I know the palm of my hand, if you’ll believe me, I couldn’t for the life of me for the moment think of any place where I could meet William, and I stood like a fool, trembling.  Oh, what a jump I gave when I heard a noise like a heavy foot in the garden outside!

’Oh! it’s father got round.  Oh! he’ll kill you, William.  Oh! whatever shall we do?’

‘Nonsense!’ said William, and he caught hold of my shoulder and gave me a gentle little shake.  ’It was only one of these pears as I kicked off.  They must be as hard as iron to fall like that.’