“I am alway fain when a man reckoneth his debt heavy,” saith Aunt Joyce. “We be mostly so earnest to persuade ourselves that we owe no farthing beyond an hundred pence.”
“I could never persuade myself of that,” saith he, shaking his white head. “I have plunged too deep in the mire to have any chance to doubt the conditions of my clothing.”
It struck me that his manner of speech was something beyond a common beggar, and I could not but marvel if he had seen better days.
“And what askest, friend?” saith Aunt Joyce, winch turned away from him and busied herself with casting small twigs on the fire.
“A few waste victuals, if it like you, Mistress. They will be better than I deserve.”
“And if it like me not?” saith Aunt Joyce, suddenly, turning back to him, and methought there was a little trembling in her voice.
“Then,” saith he, “I will trouble you no further.”
“Then,” saith she, to mine amaze, “I tell thee plainly I will not give them to such a sinner as thou hast been, by thine own confession.”
“Be it so,” he saith quietly, bowing his white head. “I cry you mercy for having troubled you, and I wish you a good morrow.”
“That shalt thou never,” came from Aunt Joyce, in a voice which was not hers. “Didst thou count I was blind? Leonard, Leonard!”