“Children!” said our mother’s soft voice, before Maud could answer, “are you going to quarrel this last night when I have come to say farewell? For shame, Maud! this was thy blame.”
“Oh, of course, it is always me,” muttered Maud, too angry for grammar. “Jack’s always the favourite; I never do any thing right.”
“Yes, you do—now and then, by accident,” responded Joan, who was sitting at the foot of our bed; a speech which did not better Maud’s temper, and it was never angelic.
Jack seemed to have forgotten his passage-at-arms with Maud. He was always good-tempered enough, though he did tease outrageously.
“Why am I poor, Dame?” quoth Jack.
“Little Jack, thou must shortly go into the wars, and thou hast no armour.”
“But you’ll get me a suit. Dame?”
“I cannot, Jack. Not for these wars. Neither can I give thee the wealth to make thee rich, as I fain would.”
“Then, Dame, you will petition the King for a grant, will you not?” saith Meg.
“True, my daughter,” saith our mother softly. “I must needs petition the King, both for the riches from His treasury, and for the arms from His armoury.” And then she bent down to kiss Jack. “O my boy, lay not up treasure for thyself, and thus fail to be rich in God.”