“’Tis a long story,” said she, “and cannot be told in a few words.”

“It will never be told at this rate,” said he; “sit down and begin it instantly.”

“My fate depends upon your words,” said Edmund; “my soul is impatient of the suspense!  If ever you loved me and cherished me, shew it now, and tell while I have breath to ask it.”

He sat in extreme agitation of mind; his words and actions were equally expressive of his inward emotions.

“I will,” said she; “but I must try to recollect all the circumstances.  You must know, young man, that you are just one-and-twenty years of age.”

“On what day was he born,” said Oswald?

“The day before yesterday,” said she, “the 21st of September.”

“A remarkable era,” said he.

“’Tis so, indeed,” said Edmund; “Oh, that night! that apartment!”

“Be silent,” said Oswald; “and do you, Margery, begin your story.”

“I will,” said she.  “Just one-and-twenty years ago, on that very day, I lost my first-born son; I got a hurt by over-reaching myself, when I was near my time, and so the poor child died.  And so, as I was sitting all alone, and very melancholy, Andrew came home from work; ’See, Margery,’ said he, ’I have brought you a child instead of that you have lost.’  So he gave me a bundle, as I thought; but sure enough it was a child; a poor helpless babe just born, and only rolled up in a fine handkerchief, and over that a rich velvet cloak, trimmed with gold lace.  ‘And where did you find this?’ says I.  ‘Upon the foot-bridge,’ says he, ‘just below the clayfield.  This child,’ said he, ’belongs to some great folk, and perhaps it may be enquired after one day, and may make our fortunes; take care of it,’ said he, ’and bring it up as if it was your own.’  The poor infant was cold, and it cried, and looked up at me so pitifully, that I loved it; beside, my milk was troublesome to me, and I was glad to be eased of it; so I gave it the breast, and from that hour I loved the child as if it were my own, and so I do still if I dared to own it.”

“And this is all you know of Edmund’s birth?” said Oswald.

“No, not all,” said Margery; “but pray look out and see whether Andrew is coming, for I am all over in a twitter.”

“He is not,” said Oswald; “go on, I beseech you! "

“This happened,” said she, “as I told you, on the 21st.  On the morrow, my Andrew went out early to work, along with one Robin Rouse, our neighbour; they had not been gone above an hour, when they both came back seemingly very much frightened.  Says Andrew, ’Go you, Robin, and borrow a pickaxe at neighbour Styles’s.’  What is the matter now?’ said I.  ‘Matter enough!’ quoth Andrew; ’we may come to be hanged, perhaps, as many an innocent man has before us.’  ‘Tell me what is the matter,’ said I.  ‘I will,’ said he; ’but if ever you open your mouth about it, woe be to you!’ ‘I never will,’ said I; but he made me