“I scarce did, True.” The eyes were growing grave and thoughtful again.
“Sweet my lady!—what conneth she, our Maiden Meditation? Doth she essay to find the philosopher’s stone?—or be her thoughts of the true knight that is to bend low at her feet, and whisper unto her some day that he loveth none save her? I would give a broad shilling for the first letter of his name.”
“You must give it, then, to some other than me. Nay, True; my fantasies be not of thy lively romancing sort. I was but thinking on a little maid that I saw yester-even, in our walk with Aunt Grena.”
“What, that dainty little conceit that came up to the house with her basket of needlework that her mother had wrought for Aunt Grena? She was a pretty child, I allow.”
“Oh no, not Patience Bradbridge. My little maid was elder than she, and lay on a day-bed within a compassed window. I marvelled who she were.”
“Why, you surely mean that poor little whitefaced Christabel Hall! She’s not pretty a whit—without it be her hair; she hath fair hair that is not over ill. But I marvel you should take a fantasy to her; there is nought taking about the child.”
“You alway consider whether folks be pretty, Gertrude.”
“Of course I do. So doth everybody.”
“I don’t.”
“Oh, you! You are not everybody, Mistress Dorrie.”