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"If it miscarry," says I, trembling, "there will be many to succeed it. But I think, Mr Swift, it cannot." "Many?" he answered, and up went his brows. "Such as my Lady Mary and such-like? But that is no love, Stellakin. 'T is only thy innocence could mistake it. The true name is none so pretty, and not for thy lips. Get thee to a nunnery, child the world is not for such as thee."
But to escape the hue and cry of question, I washed the tears from my eyes in the morning, and so to the housekeeper's room. And he was there, reading in a great book, and my heart leapt like the last leap of a hare with the dogs on it. "Why, Stellakin saucy-nose!" says he, laughing, but his face was pale.
How could I endure this? I closed the door, and left him laughing with white lips. So went the day, and now I saw his drift. He would hold the little language of childhood for a shield betwixt us. I should be nothing more for ever than Ppt, poor pretty thing, Stellakin, the pretty rogue. He would not fail in this, but only in all my hopes. He would give me all but that I longed for.
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