Upstairs they went together, Lucy not sharing these objections.  Then Lucy opened certain drawers, and exhibited pretty caps, and laced linen, all adapted for a very small body, all the work of her own hands:  and Mrs. Berry praised them and her.  “You been guessing a boy—­woman-like,” she said.  Then they cooed, and kissed, and undressed by the fire, and knelt at the bedside, with their arms about each other, praying; both praying for the unborn child; and Mrs. Berry pressed Lucy’s waist the moment she was about to breathe the petition to heaven to shield and bless that coming life; and thereat Lucy closed to her, and felt a strong love for her.  Then Lucy got into bed first, leaving Berry to put out the light, and before she did so, Berry leaned over her, and eyed her roguishly, saying, “I never see ye like this, but I’m half in love with ye myself, you blushin’ beauty!  Sweet’s your eyes, and your hair do take one so—­lyin’ back.  I’d never forgive my father if he kep me away from ye four-and-twenty hours just.  Husband o’ that!” Berry pointed at the young wife’s loveliness.  “Ye look so ripe with kisses, and there they are a-languishin’!—...  You never look so but in your bed, ye beauty!—­just as it ought to be.”  Lucy had to pretend to rise to put out the light before Berry would give up her amorous chaste soliloquy.  Then they lay in bed, and Mrs. Berry fondled her, and arranged for their departure to-morrow, and reviewed Richard’s emotions when he came to hear he was going to be made a father by her, and hinted at Lucy’s delicious shivers when Richard was again in his rightful place, which she, Bessy Berry, now usurped; and all sorts of amorous sweet things; enough to make one fancy the adage subverted, that stolen fruits are sweetest; she drew such glowing pictures of bliss within the law and the limits of the conscience, till at last, worn out, Lucy murmured “Peepy, dear Berry,” and the soft woman gradually ceased her chirp.

Bessy Berry did not sleep.  She lay thinking of the sweet brave heart beside her, and listening to Lucy’s breath as it came and went; squeezing the fair sleeper’s hand now and then, to ease her love as her reflections warmed.  A storm of wind came howling over the Hampshire hills, and sprang white foam on the water, and shook the bare trees.  It passed, leaving a thin cloth of snow on the wintry land.  The moon shone brilliantly.  Berry heard the house-dog bark.  His bark was savage and persistent.  She was roused by the noise.  By and by she fancied she heard a movement in the house; then it seemed to her that the house-door opened.  She cocked her ears, and could almost make out voices in the midnight stillness.  She slipped from the bed, locked and bolted the door of the room, assured herself of Lucy’s unconsciousness, and went on tiptoe to the window.  The trees all stood white to the north; the ground glittered; the cold was keen.  Berry wrapped her fat arms across her bosom, and peeped as close over into the garden as the situation of