"Yes, there is a difference," he continued, placidly; "it is this: you will return without those eggs, but the poet will come back still carrying his poem in his breast-pocket!"
Then he laughed at his own remark.
"That is how things go in the great world, you know," he said. "Out in the great world there is an odd way of settling matters. Still they must be settled somehow or other!"
"Out in the world!" she exclaimed. "That is where I long to go."
"Then why on earth don't you?" he replied.
At that moment Mrs. Benbow came running out.
"I am so sorry to keep you waiting, Miss Hammond," she said to the young girl; "but what with the washing and the making ready for the brewing to-morrow, I don't know where to turn."
Then followed a series of messages to which Hieronymus paid no attention. And then Miss Hammond cracked her whip, waved her greetings with it, and the old white horse trotted away.
"And who is the rider of the horse?" asked Hieronymus.
"Oh, she is Farmer Hammond's daughter," said Mrs. Benbow. "Her name is Joan. She is an odd girl, different from the other girls here. They say she is quite a scholar too. Why, she would be the one to write for you. The very one, of course! I'll call to her."