Sally sat in her kitchen, tidy and subdued, mending an old jacket that had once been Bill's, until, being supplanted by the grand red coat, it descended upon Jem, the second lad. But Bill still engrossed the poor mother's heart—she could do nothing but weep over him, and curse "Bonyparty." Her mind was so full of this that she apparently failed to recognise in the decent young workman, John Halifax, the half-starved lad she had belaboured with her tongue in the alley. She consented at once to his lodging with her—though she looked up with an odd stare when I said he was "a friend" of mine.
So we settled our business, first all together, then Sally and I alone, while John went up to look at his room. I knew I could trust Sally, whom I was glad enough to help, poor woman! She promised to make him extra-comfortable, and keep my secret too. When John came down she was quite civil to him—even friendly.
She said it would really be a comfort to her, that another fine, strapping lad should sleep in Bill's bed, and be coming in and out of her house just like her poor dear boy.
I felt rather doubtful of the resemblance, and indeed half-angry, but John only smiled.
"And if, maybe, he'd do a hand's turn now and then about the kitchen—I s'pose he bean't above it?"
"Not a bit!" said John Halifax, pleasantly.
Before we left I wanted to see his room; he carried me up, and we both sat down on the bed that had been poor Bill's. It was nothing to boast of, being a mere sacking stuffed with hay—a blanket below, and another at top; I had to beg from Jael the only pair of sheets John owned for a long time. The attic was very low and small, hardly big enough "to whip a cat round," or even a kitten—yet John gazed about it with an air of proud possession.
"I declare I shall be as happy as a king. Only look out of the window!"
Ay, the window was the grand advantage; out of it one could crawl on to the roof, and from the roof was the finest view in all Norton Bury. On one side, the town, the Abbey, and beyond it a wide stretch of meadow and woodland as far as you could see; on the other, the broad Ham, the glittering curve of Severn, and the distant country, sloping up into "the blue bills far away." A picture, which in its incessant variety, its quiet beauty, and its inexpressibly soothing charm, was likely to make the simple, everyday act of "looking out o' window," unconsciously influence the mind as much as a world of books.
"Do you like your 'castle,' John?" said I, when I had silently watched his beaming face; "will it suit you?"