Half of the reign of Josiah, as his people loved to call him, was run out in the summer of 1550. The breathing-time of hope was nearly over.
A June morning in that summer found Isoult Avery seated by the window at work, and Robin Tremayne holding a book which he was not reading. His eyes were intently watching the light feathery clouds which floated across the blue space beyond, and his thoughts were equally intent on some subject not yet apparent. Except Walter, who was busy in the corner, manufacturing paper boats, there was no one else in the room.
Robin broke the silence, and rather suddenly.
“Mother,”—he had come to call her so,—“what think you of Mr Rose?”
“What think I of him, Robin?” repeated Isoult, looking up, while a faint expression of surprise crossed her gentle countenance. “Why, he liketh me very well!”
“And what think you of Mrs Rose, Mother?”
The surprise increased in Isoult’s look, and it was accompanied now by perplexity. But she only answered—
“She liketh me only less than her husband. I would she had been English-born, but that cannot she well help; and I have none other fault to find with her.”
“And what think you, Mother, of Mrs Thekla?”
Robin said this in a very low voice. Dr Thorpe was coming in as he spoke, and the old man turned and faced round on the lad.