“I am sorry I spoke so,” Hugh said contritely, still holding her hand. “Shall we go look for apples now?”
The girl shook her head: “Prithee, do not put me off, Hugh, and do not reproach yourself; I am not sorry that you spoke so. You are the only one to whom I can talk of such things, here at Everscombe.”
“And you are the only one I have been able to talk to of anything that touches me nearly, these two years since my mother died.—Do you know, Lois, I sometimes think you look like her. She had brown hair like yours, for she was a true Oldesworth and dark. Now I am a Gwyeth, and so I come rightly by my red hair.”
“You shall not slander it so,” Lois interrupted.
“Aunt Delia calls it red. I care not for the color, but I’d like to let it grow.” Hugh ran his fingers through his cropped hair.
“Would you turn Cavalier?” Lois asked half seriously.
“Most gentlemen wear their hair long; even my grandfather and Uncle Nathaniel, for all they hold to Parliament.”
“Master Thomas Oldesworth has cut his close; he says all soldiers do so in Germany.”
“My father did not,” Hugh answered quickly. “And he had more experience in the German wars than ever Uncle Tom will have.”
“Tell me about him again, Hugh, if you will,” Lois begged.