“How do you know?  How durst you say so?” said Hetty, pausing in her walk and trembling.  The terrible decision of Adam’s tone shook her with fear.  She had no presence of mind left for the reflection that Arthur would have his reasons for not telling the truth to Adam.  Her words and look were enough to determine Adam:  he must give her the letter.

“Perhaps you can’t believe me, Hetty, because you think too well of him—­because you think he loves you better than he does.  But I’ve got a letter i’ my pocket, as he wrote himself for me to give you.  I’ve not read the letter, but he says he’s told you the truth in it.  But before I give you the letter, consider, Hetty, and don’t let it take too much hold on you.  It wouldna ha’ been good for you if he’d wanted to do such a mad thing as marry you:  it ‘ud ha’ led to no happiness i’ th’ end.”

Hetty said nothing; she felt a revival of hope at the mention of a letter which Adam had not read.  There would be something quite different in it from what he thought.

Adam took out the letter, but he held it in his hand still, while he said, in a tone of tender entreaty, “Don’t you bear me ill will, Hetty, because I’m the means o’ bringing you this pain.  God knows I’d ha’ borne a good deal worse for the sake o’ sparing it you.  And think—­there’s nobody but me knows about this, and I’ll take care of you as if I was your brother.  You’re the same as ever to me, for I don’t believe you’ve done any wrong knowingly.”

Hetty had laid her hand on the letter, but Adam did not loose it till he had done speaking.  She took no notice of what he said—­she had not listened; but when he loosed the letter, she put it into her pocket, without opening it, and then began to walk more quickly, as if she wanted to go in.

“You’re in the right not to read it just yet,” said Adam.  “Read it when you’re by yourself.  But stay out a little bit longer, and let us call the children:  you look so white and ill, your aunt may take notice of it.”

Hetty heard the warning.  It recalled to her the necessity of rallying her native powers of concealment, which had half given way under the shock of Adam’s words.  And she had the letter in her pocket:  she was sure there was comfort in that letter in spite of Adam.  She ran to find Totty, and soon reappeared with recovered colour, leading Totty, who was making a sour face because she had been obliged to throw away an unripe apple that she had set her small teeth in.

“Hegh, Totty,” said Adam, “come and ride on my shoulder—­ever so high—­you’ll touch the tops o’ the trees.”

What little child ever refused to be comforted by that glorious sense of being seized strongly and swung upward?  I don’t believe Ganymede cried when the eagle carried him away, and perhaps deposited him on Jove’s shoulder at the end.  Totty smiled down complacently from her secure height, and pleasant was the sight to the mother’s eyes, as she stood at the house door and saw Adam coming with his small burden.