“Where’s the pain? I’ve gathered some splendid fresh betony and holy-thistle.”
“Here!” said Isel, laying her hand on her heart.
“Why, then, holy-thistle’s just what you want. I’ll send you some down by Stephen.”
“Thank you. But it’ll do me no good.”
“Oh, don’t you say that, now.—Flemild, I wonder you did not come to see all the sights. You’ll find you’ve not nearly so much time for pleasure after you’re married; don’t look for it. Have you settled when it’s to be?”
“It was to have been last month, you know, but Father wanted it put off.”
“Ay, so as he could know Raven a bit better. Well, when is it to be now?”
“March, they say.”
“You don’t say it as if you enjoyed it much.”
“Maybe she takes her pleasure in different ways from you,” said Isel. “Can’t see any, for my part, in going to see a lot of poor wretches flogged and driven out into the snow. Suppose you could.”