“Mistress, here at the base door is a poor blind man, begging for broken victuals. Would you have me give him that beef-bone you set aside for broth?”
“A blind man?” saith Aunt Joyce. “Then shall he not go empty. I am coming down, Bab, and will look to him myself. Bring him out of the rain to the kitchen fire, and if he have a dog that leadeth him, find the poor animal some scraps.—Now, Edith, bring thy basket, and I will take mine.”
“He hath no dog, Mistress,” saith Bab; “’twas a lad that brought him.”
“Then the lad may have an apple,” saith Aunt Joyce, “which the dog should scantly shake his tail for. Go and bring them in, Bab; I shall be after thee presently.”
So down came we into the kitchen, where was sat the blind man and the lad. We set down our baskets, and I gave the lad an apple at a sign from Aunt Joyce, which went toward the blind man and ’gan ask him if he were of those parts.
He was a comely man of (I would judge) betwixt sixty and seventy years, and had a long white beard. He essayed to rise when Aunt Joyce spake.
“Nay, sit still, friend,” saith she: “I dare reckon thou art aweary.”
“Ay,” saith he in a sad tone: “weary of life and all things that be in it.”
“Ay so?” quoth she. “And how, then, of thine hope for the life beyond, where they never rest, yet are never weary?”
“Mistress,” saith he, “the sinner that hath been pardoned a debt of ten thousand talents may have peace, but can scarce dare rise to hope.”