“No good, perhaps,” answered Innocent, sorrowfully—­“but it’s right I should know.  You see, I’m not a child any more—­I’m eighteen—­that’s a woman—­and a woman ought to know what she must expect more or less in her life—­”

Priscilla leaned on the newly scrubbed kitchen table and looked across at the girl with a compassionate expression.

“What a woman must expect in life is good ’ard knocks and blows,” she said—­“unless she can get a man to look arter her what’s not of the general kicking spirit.  Take my advice, dearie!  You marry Mr. Robin!—­as good a boy as ever breathed—­he’ll be a kind fond ’usband to ye, and arter all that’s what a woman thrives best on—­ kindness—­an’ you’ve ’ad it all your life up to now—­”

“Priscilla,” interrupted Innocent, decidedly—­“I cannot marry Robin!  You know I cannot!  A poor nameless girl like me!—­why, it would be a shame to him in after-years.  Besides, I don’t love him —­and it’s wicked to marry a man you don’t love.”

Priscilla smothered a sound between a grunt and a sigh.

“You talks a lot about love, child,” she said—­“but I’m thinkin’ you don’t know much about it.  Them old books an’ papers you found up in the secret room are full of nonsense, I’m pretty sure—­an’ if you believes that men are always sighin’ an’ dyin’ for a woman, you’re mistaken—­yes, you are, lovey!  They goes where they can be made most comfortable—­an’ it don’t matter what sort o’ woman gives the comfort so long as they gits it.”

Innocent smiled, faintly.

“You don’t know anything about it, Priscilla,” she answered—­“You were never married.”

“Thank the Lord and His goodness, no!” said Priscilla, with an emphatic sniff—­“I’ve never been troubled with the whimsies of a man, which is worse than all the megrims of a woman any day.  I’ve looked arter Mr. Jocelyn in a way—­but he’s no sort of a man to worry about—­he just goes reglar to the farmin’—­an’ that’s all—­a decent creature always, an’ steady as his own oxen what pulls the plough.  An’ when he’s gone, if go he must, I’ll look arter you an’ Mr. Robin, an’ please God, I’ll dance your babies on my old knees—­” Here she broke off and turned her head away.  Innocent ran to her, surprised.

“Why, Priscilla, you’re crying!” she exclaimed—­Don’t do that!  Why should you cry?”

“Why indeed!” blubbered Priscilla—­“Except that I’m a doiterin’ fool!  I can’t abear the thoughts of you turnin’ yer back on the good that God gives ye, an’ floutin’ Mr. Robin, who’s the best sort o’ man that ever could fall to the lot of a little tender maid like you—­why, lovey, you don’t know the wickedness o’ this world, nor the ways of it—­an’ you talks about love as if it was somethin’ wonderful an’ far away, when here it is at yer very feet for the pickin’ up!  What’s the good of all they books ye’ve bin readin’ if they don’t teach ye that the old knight you’re fond of got so weary of the world that arter tryin’ everythin’ in turn he found nothin’ better than to marry a plain, straight country wench and settle down in Briar Farm for all his days?  Ain’t that the lesson he’s taught ye?”