the door behind them as if 'twere of gingerbread; and no sooner are they gone than Moll, big with her mad design, nips out of bed, strips off her nightgown, and finding nothing more convenient for her purpose, puts the ham, pasty, and partridges in a clean pillow-slip. This done, she puts on her cloak and hood, and having with great caution set the door open and seen all safe and quiet below, she takes up her bag of victuals, blows out the candle, and as silent as any mouse makes her way to the little private staircase at the end of the stairs. And now, with less fear of encountering Mrs. Godwin than Black Bogey, she feels her way down the dark, narrow staircase, reaches the lower door, unbolts it, and steps out on the path at the back of the house.
There is still a faint twilight, and this enables her to find her way to the wicket gate opposite Anne Fitch's cottage. Not a soul is to be seen; and so, with her hood drawn well over her head, she speeds on, and in five minutes reaches my house. Here finding the door fastened, she gives a couple of knocks, and on my opening she asks meekly in a feigned voice, which for the life of me I should not have known for hers, if I am minded to buy a couple of partridges a friend has sent and she has no use for.
"Partridges!" cries Dawson, from within. "Have 'em, Kit, for your bread and cheese is mighty every-day fare."
"Let me see 'em, good woman," says I.
"Yes, sir," answers she, meekly, putting her pillow-slip in my hand, which perplexed me vastly by its weight and bulk.
"They seem to be pretty big birds by the feel of 'em," says I. "You can come in and shut the door after you."
