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Charles’s provisions, which were unknown to her, and the two eagerly consumed every drop and crumb. Charles had no previous knowledge of seduction, nor plan for it now; yet he noted that Meg’s nervousness had left her as the port warmed her veins, that her brown eyes grew brilliant, and soft red appeared on her cheekbones. She leaned back against his arm and sighed happily. He flung his hat to the corner of the mill and began to kiss her. After a moment of shrinking she returned his kisses. Her breath was sweet as violets, her little body yielded to his increasing ardor. Though once she cried out in protest, when he whispered hoarsely, “Don’t, Meg, don’t, sweetheart, I won’t hurt you.” She gave a little sob and shut her eyes, then clasping his neck tight with her arms, she let him do as instinct bade him.
    But later when the sun slanted through the mill door, and aroused Charles from a delicious languor their thoughts were very different. Charles’s were exultant. He was a man now! No one could gainsay his manhood any more. He turned with a smile to kiss again the partner of so delightful an experience, and found Meg’s chest heaving, and tears dripping off her cheeks onto the sacking.
    “Why come, poppet,” he said, half exasperated. “There’s no cause for weeping. What’s amiss?”
    She pulled away from him and buried her face in her arms. He barely heard her choking voice. “I diwen’t knaw that was going to happen. I divven’t guess ‘twould be like that. I’ve brought shame to m’family.”
    “They’ll never know,” said Charles confidently. “Silly girl, this happens every day ‘twixt two young folk who take joy in each other.”
    “Not wi’out a wedding first,” she cried, and sobbed harder. “I’ve done very wrong, but I love ye, sir. Mebbe the Faw woman cast a spell on me fur I began to love ye then.”
    “Love is sweet,” said Charles abstractedly kissing the top of her head.
    She twisted around to look up at him. “But there’s naught ahead fur us,” she said with dreary finality. “We may not love outside our class. ‘Tis very wrong.”
    Inexperienced as he was, it occurred to Charles that that particular wrong was widespread, but arguments wearied him, and he pulled her onto his lap, saying, “Smile, Meg! Smile the way you did before! You’re pretty as a posy when you smile.”
    “Am I then?” she said striving to obey. In a while he had kissed and cozzened her back to a happier mood. When at last they parted, she had promised to meet him here the following Sunday.
    On five Sundays, Charles and Meg kept their trysts in the old windmill. Nobody suspected them, though there had been such a fuss over the neglected Mass that Charles did not dare repeat his sin. He rearranged his meetings with Meg so that before leaving Dilston he might first attend the family Mass at eight. He avoided confession, in which he had been most irregular anyway, and he told a few shrewd lies to Sir Marmaduke, who had washed his hands of the rebellious boy.
    On the last Sunday in October Charles set out as usual, though it was pouring with cold rain. For the first time he found himself reluctant to go. He felt tenderness for the girl, and gratitude for the pleasure she gave him, yet the first rapture had dwindled. He knew now all the secrets of her small body, and he knew precisely how she would act. She would be initially reluctant, even sullen, she would weep a while and worry about her wrongdoing, presently she would let him kiss her into surrender again. And despite the freezing rain, she would be waiting docilely inside the mill. Of all these things Charles was certain. Great then was his astonishment when he arrived sodden and quite late to find that Meg was not there. He frowned and peered around the dark building until he spied a piece of torn paper folded on the sacks. He carried it to the light and deciphered the childish scrawl: “Fareweel, sir. I’ll not forget thee but ‘tis