y, and laughed. And he knew she understood
it--truancy.

[Illustration: "He ... trudged up the path and peered in at the open
door"]

Perhaps she understood more than the fact, perhaps she understood the
feeling. She threw her work aside, needle stuck therein, and clapped a
wide straw hat upon her head and taking his hand dragged him down the
path and out the gate and away--along the Evesham road.

But she lectured him nevertheless, this red-cheeked boy with the full as
yet undisciplined young mouth and the clear, warm hazel eyes.

"You tell me that I, too, throw my work down and run away? Ay, Will,
there's that hot blood within me that sweeps me out every now and then
from within tame walls and from stupid people, and makes me know it is
true, the old tale of some wild, gypsy blood brought home by a soldier
Hathaway for wife. But there is this difference, if you please, sir;
I throw down my work because I have fought my fight and conquered it, am
mistress of what I will in my household craft. Think you that I love the
molding of butter and the care of poultry, or to spin, to cut, to sew,
because I do them and do them well? It is not the thing I love, Will--it
is in the victory I find the joy. I would conquer them to feel my power.
Conquer your book, Will, stride ahead of your class, then play your fill
till they arrive abreast of you again. But a laggard, a stupid, or a
middling! And, in faith, the last is worst."

They walked along, boy and young woman, she musing, he looking up with
young ardor into her face. "You--you are so beautiful, Ann," the boy
blurted forth, "and--and--no one understands as you do."

She laid a hand on his shoulder and turned her dark eyes upon him.
Teasing eyes they could be and mocking, yet sweet, too. Ah, sweet and
tender through their laughter!

"Shall I tell you why I understand, Will Shakespeare, child?" Was she
talking altogether to the boy, or above his head--aloud--as to herself?
"I am a woman, Will, and at nineteen most such are already wife and
mother, and I am still unwed. Shall I tell you why? We are but souls
wandering and lonely in the dark, Will, other souls everywhere
around, but scarce a groping hand that ever meets or touches our
outstretched own. In all life we feel one such touch, perchance, or two.
The rest we know no more than if they were not there. My father, great,
simple, countryman's soul, I knew, Will, and Mary Shakespeare I know.
Would she might learn she