THE HAPPY HYPOCRITE
I shall die in the snow with my faggots on my back. A poor life here!”
“I will give you gold tor your cottage and whatever is in it, and then you can go and live happily in the town,” Lord George said. And he took from his coat a note for two hundred guineas, and held it across the palings.
“Lovers are poor, foolish derry-docks,” the old man muttered. “But I thank you kindly, sir. This little sum will keep me cosy, as long as I last. Come into the cottage as soon as can be. It’s a lonely place and does my heart good to depart from it.”
“We are going to be married this afternoon, in the town,” said Lord George. “We will come straight back to our home.”
“May you be happy!” replied the woodman. “You’ll find me gone when you come.”
And the lovers thanked him and went their way.
“Are you very rich?” Jenny asked. “Ought you to have bought the cottage for that great price?”
“Would you love me as much if I were quite poor, little Jenny?” he asked her after a pause.
“I did not know you were rich when I saw you across the stream,” she said.
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