“Methinks, Master,” said Agnes rather diffidently, “’tis about God, and His love to men.”
“What thereabout?” replied he, continuing to look into the fire.
“Why, Master,” said Agnes, “surely you do wit better than I.”
“Well, I wit nought thereabout, nor never want,” said Anne a little pettishly. “’Twill be time enough when I have the years o’ my grandame, I guess, to make me crabbed and gloomsome.”
Agnes looked at her in amazement.
“Nan,” said her father, “I heard thee this morrow a-singing of a love-song.”
“Well, so may you yet again,” said she, laughing.
“That made thee not gloomsome, trow?” he asked.
“Never a whit! how should it?” replied Anne, still laughing.
“Let be! but ’tis queer,” said he, rising. “Man’s love is merry gear; but God’s love is crabbed stuff. ’Tis a strange world, my maids.”