e laughed 'twas with her hands
clasping her sides, her head thrown back, and all her white teeth
gleaming in the light.

"Now," says I, when at length our meal was finished, "I will clear the
table."

"Hoop!" cries she, catching up the corners of the tablecloth, and
flinging them over the fragments; "'tis done. Let us draw round the
fire, and tell old tales. Here's a pipe, dear dad; I love the smell of
tobacco; and you" (to me) "do fetch me a pipkin, that I may brew a good
drink to keep our tongues going."

About the time this drink was brewed, Simon, leading Mr. Godwin by a
circuitous way, came through the garden to the back of the house, where
was a door, which I had never opened for lack of a key to fit the lock.
This key was now in Simon's hand, and putting it with infinite care into
the hole, he softly turned it in the wards. Then, with the like
precaution, he lifts the latch and gently thrusts the door open,
listening at every inch to catch the sounds within. At length 'tis
opened wide; and so, turning his face to Mr. Godwin, who waits behind,
sick with mingled shame and creeping dread, he beckons him to follow.

Above, Dawson was singing at the top of his voice, a sea-song he had
learnt of a mariner at the inn he frequented at Greenwich, with a troll
at the end, taken up by Moll and me. And to hear his wife's voice
bearing part in this rude song, made Mr. Godwin's heart to sink within
him. Under cover of this noise, Simon mounted the stairs without
hesitation, Mr. Godwin following at his heels, in a kind of sick
bewilderment. 'Twas pitch dark up there, and Simon, stretching forth his
hands to know if Mr. Godwin was by, touched his hand, which was deadly
cold and quivering; for here at the door he was seized with a sweating
faintness, which so sapped his vigour that he was forced to hold by the
wall to save himself from falling.

"Art thee ready?" asks Simon; but he can get no answer, for Mr. Godwin's
energies, quickened by a word from within like a jaded beast by the
sting of a whip, is straining his ears to catch what is passing within.
And what hears he?--The song is ended, and Dawson cries:

"You han't lost your old knack of catching a tune, Moll. Come hither,
wench, and sit upon my knee, for I do love ye more than ever. Give me a
buss, chuck; this fine husband of thine shall not have all thy sweetness
to himself."

At this moment, Simon, having lifted the latch under his thumb, pushes
wide open the d