“Well,” saith he, “if thou wilt come and visit me, Joyce, an hundred years hence, at the sign of the Burnt-Sacrifice, in Amethyst Lane, in the New Jerusalem, I will see if I can do it for thee then.”
“Aubrey Louvaine!” saith Aunt Joyce, “thou art—”
“Not yet there,” he answers. “I am fully aware of it.”
“The wearifullest tease ever I saw, when it liketh thee!” saith she.
“Dost thou know, Joyce,” quoth Mother, laughing merrily, “I found out that afore I was wed. He did play right cruelly on mine eagerness once or twice.”
“Good lack! then why didst thou wed him?” saith Aunt Joyce.
Mother laughed at this, and Father made a merry answer, which turned the discourse to other matter, and were not worth to set down. So we gat not back to our sad talk, but all ended with mirth.
This morrow come o’er Robin Lewthwaite, with a couple of rare fowl and his mother’s loving commendations for Mother. He saith nothing is yet at all heard of their Blanche, and he shook his head right sorrowfully when I asked at him if he thought aught should be. It seemed so strange a thing to see Robin sorrowful.
Selwick Hall, December ye xvi.
This morrow, my Lady Stafford, Aunt Joyce, and I, were sat at our work alone in the great chamber. Milly was gone with Mother a-visiting poor folk, and Sir Robert and Mistress Martin, with Helen for guide, were away towards Thirlmere,—my Lady Stafford denying to go withal, by reason she had an ill rheum catched yesterday amongst the snowy lanes. All at once, up looks my Lady, and she saith—