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She had sent away Nan Jordan her woman, because she wanted to be alone, and also because she had never liked the processes of being dressed and undressed. She could dress and undress herself and arrange her own hair—not to her mother's satisfaction but to her own. To-night she loosened her bodice and let it fall from her shoulders. The window was unglazed, and she enjoyed the heresy of the night air. Many and many a time they had told her she would die early, but here she was, still alive, though unwed.

A dreamy smile changed and softened her face. Unwed . . . wed . . . the unwed may be wed . . . She knew it was folly to believe the words of conjurers, and against religion too, but there was pleasure in a good fortune all the same. Her bridegroom's hair was to be black as pitch and ebony. . . . She had often wanted to put her hand on Kit Oxenbrigge's head, and push and flatten that shining lock of hair. Black as pitch . . . pitch black . . . black Protestant . . . but she could change him—his Protestant roots could not be deep. The green bay tree has only just been planted in the land and can easily be plucked up. . .