“Maybe so. Will you have with us, True, to Master Hall’s?”
“I? Gramercy, no! I’m none so fond of sick childre.”
“Christie is not sick, so to speak, Bridget saith; she is but lame and weak.”
“Well, then she is sick, so not to speak! She alway lieth of a couch, and I’ll go bail she whines and mewls enough o’er it.”
“Nay, Bridget saith she is right full of cheer, and most patient, notwithstanding her maladies. And, True, the poor little maid is alone the whole day long, save on holy-days, when only her father can be with her. Wouldst thou not love well to bring some sunshine into her little life?”
“Did I not tell you a minute gone, Pandora Roberts, that you and I were cast in different moulds? No, my Minorite Sister, I should not love it—never a whit. I want my sunshine for mine own life—not to brighten sick maids and polish up poor childre. Go your ways, O best of Pandoras, and let me be. I’ll try over the step of that new minuet while you are gone.”
“And would you really enjoy that better than being kind to a sick child? O True, you do astonish me!”
“I should. I never was cut out for a Lady Bountiful. I could not do it, Dorrie—not for all the praises and blessings you expect to get.”
“Gertrude, did you think—”
“An’t like you, Mistress Pandora, the horses be at the door, and Mistress Grena is now full ready.”