Agnes was so deep in thought that she did not hear his retreating steps. She looked up with a further remark on her lips, and found that he was gone.
It was nearly dark now, and there was only just time to reach the City gate before the hour when it would be closed. Agnes hurried on quickly, passed out of Newgate, and, afraid of being benighted, almost ran up Giltspur Street to the south end of Cow Lane. A hasty rap on Mistress Flint’s door brought little Will to open it.
“Good lack!” said the child. “Mother, here is Mistress Agnes Stone.”
“What, Agnes!” cried Mistress Flint’s cheery voice from within. “Come in, dear heart, and welcome. What news to-night, trow?”
“The old news, my mistress,” said Agnes, smiling, “that here is a supperless maid bereft of lodgment, come to see if your heart be as full of compassion as aforetime.”
“Lack-a-daisy! hath Gossip Winter turned thee forth? Well, thank the saints, there is room to spare for thee here. Supper will be ready ere many minutes, I guess. Prithee take hold o’ th’ other end of Helen’s work, and it shall be all the sooner.”
Helen Flint, who was busy at the fire, welcomed the offered help with a bright smile like her mother’s, and set Agnes to work at once. The latter was beginning to find herself very hungry, and Mistress Flint treated her guest to considerably better fare than Mistress Winter did her drudge. There were comparatively few of the household at home to supper; for the party consisted only of Mr and Mrs Flint, two daughters, Helen and Anne, and the little boys, Will and Dickon.
“What news abroad, Goodman?” demanded Mistress Flint, when her curiosity got the better of her hunger.
“Why, that ’tis like to rain,” returned her husband, a quiet, unobtrusive man, with a good deal of dry humour.
“That I wist aforetime,” retorted she; “for no sooner set I my foot out of the door this morrow than I well-nigh stepped of a black snail.”