There were no banks in those days. A man’s savings bank was an old stocking or a tin mug. Agnes disposed of the money she had left from the Queen’s payment, partly in the purchase of a cow, and partly in a stocking, which was carefully locked up in the oak chest. They could live very comfortably on the produce of the cow and the garden, aided by what small sums they might earn in one way and another. And so the years went on, until Avice in her turn married and was left a widow; but she had no child, and when her mother died Avice was left alone.
“I can never do to live alone,” she said to herself; “I must have somebody to love and work for.”
And she began to think whom she could find to live with her. As she sat and span in the twilight, one name after another occurred to her mind, but only to be all declined with thanks.
There was her neighbour next door, Annora Goldhue: she had three daughters. No, none of them would do. Joan was idle, and Amy was conceited, and Frethesancia had a temper. Little Roese might have done, who lived with old Serena at the mill end; but old Serena could not spare her. At last, as Avice broke her thread for the fourth time, she pushed back the stool on which she was sitting, and rose with her determination taken, and spoke it out—
“I will go and see Aunt Filomena.”
Aunt Filomena lived about a mile from Lincoln, on the Newport road. Her husband was a greensmith: that is to say, he worked in copper, and hawked his goods in the town when made. Avice lost no time in going, but set out at once.
As she rounded the last turn in the lane, she heard the ring of Daniel Greensmith’s hammer on the anvil, and a few minutes’ more walking brought her in sight of the smith himself, who laid down his hammer and shaded his eyes to see who was coming.
“Why, Uncle Dan, don’t you know me?” said Avice.
“Nay, who is to know thee, when thou comes so seldom?” said old Dan, wiping his hot face with his apron. “Art thou come to see me or my dame?”
“I want to see Aunt Filomena. Is she in, Uncle Dan?”