"Tis well to be laughing," said Old Gillman, "but have ye heard my daughter laughing yet?"
"No, master," said Jessica, "but I shouldn't wonder if it happened any day."
"Any day may be no day," groaned Gillman, "and though it were some day, as like as not I'd not be here to see the day. For I'm drinking myself into my grave, as Parson warned me yesternight, coming for my receipt for mulled beer. Gillian!" he implored, "when will ye think better of it, and save an old man's life?"
But for all the notice she took of him, he might have been the dog barking in his kennel.
"Bitter bread for me, maids, and sweet bread for you," said the farmer, passing the loaves through the gap. "Tis plain fare for all these days. May the morrow bring cake."
"Oh, master, please!" called Jessica. "I would like to know how Clover, the Aberdeen, gets on without me."
"Gets on as best she can with Oliver," said Gillman, "though that fretty at times tis as well for him she's polled. Yet all he says is Patience.' But I say, will patience keep us all from rack and ruin?"
And he went away shaking his head.
"Why did you laugh?" stormed Joscelyn, as soon as he was out of earshot.
"How could I help it?" pleaded Martin. "When the old man laughed because you laughed, and you laughed for another reason—hadn't I a third reason to laugh? But how you glared at me! I am sorry I laughed. Let us have breakfast."