’’Ard on ‘er?’ says ’e, and I’d never ’eard ’is voice so soft, not even when ‘e was courtin’ me, or when my Pretty was a little un, and ‘e hushin’ her to sleep. ’’Ard on ’er?  ’Ard on my precious lamb?  It ain’t us men who is ’ard on them things, it’s you wimmen-folk; the day before ‘er weddin’, too!’

Then ’e was quiet for a bit—­then ’e takes ’is shoes off so as not to make a clatter on the steps near where she slept, and ’e comes out in a minute with my Bible in ’is ’and.

‘Now,’ says ’e, very quiet, ‘you needn’t be afraid of my bein’ ’ard on ’er, but if ever I meet ’im, I’ll ’ave ’is blood, if I swing for it, and I’m goin’ to swear it on this ‘ere Bible—­so help me God!’

He looked like a mad thing; his eyes was a-shinin’ like lanterns, and ’is face all pulled out of its proper shape; and ’e plumps down on ’is knees there, on the deck, with the Bible in ’is ’ands.  And before I knew what I was doin’, I’d caught the book out of ’is ’ands, and chucked it into the river, my own Bible, that my own mother had given me when I was a little kid, and I threw my arms round his neck, and held his head against my bosom, so that his mouth was shut, and ’e couldn’t speak.

‘No, no, no, Tom,’ says I, ’you mustn’t swear it, and you shan’t.  Think of the girl, think of your poor old woman, think of the poor little kid that’s comin’, what ud us all do without you?  And you hanged for the sake of such trash as that!  Why, ‘e ain’t worth it,’ says I, tryin’ to laugh.

Then ’e got ’is ‘ead out of my arms and stood lookin’ about ’im, like a man that’s ’ad a bad dream and ’as just waked up.  Then ’e smacks me on the back, ‘All right, old woman,’ says ’e, ’we won’t swear nothin’, but it’ll be a bad day for him when ’e comes a-nigh the William and Mary.’

So no more was said.  And we got through the winter somehow, and the baby was born, as fine a gell as ever you see; and what I said come true, for we couldn’t none of us ’ave loved the baby more if its father and mother ’ad been married by an archbishop in Westminster Abbey.  And the folks we knew along the banks would have been kind to my Pretty, but she wouldn’t never show her face to any of them.  ’I’ve got you, mother, and I’ve got father and the baby, and I don’t want no one else,’ says she.

My Tom, he wasn’t never the same man after that night ’e ’d got out the Bible to swear.  He give up the drink, but it didn’t make ’im no cheerfuller, and ’e went to church now and then, a thing I’d never known ’im do since we was married.  And time went on, and it was August again, with a big yellow moon in the sky.

My Pretty and the baby was in bed, and the old man and me, we was just a-turnin’ in, when we ‘eard some one a-runnin’ along the tow-path.  My old man puts ’is ’ead out to see who’s there, and as ’e looked a man come runnin’ along close by where we was moored, and ’e jumped on to our barge, not stoppin’ to look at the name, and, ’For God’s sake, hide me!’ says ’e, and it was a soldier in a red coat with a scared face, as I see by the light of the moon.  And it was Bill Jarvis what ’ad brought our girl to shame and run away and left ’er on ‘er weddin’ morn; and I looked to see my old man take ’im by the shoulder and chuck ’im into the water.  And Jarvis didn’t see whose barge he’d come aboard of.