“Yes,” sneered Tyrrel. “And if thou think it not well, then mend it!”
“‘Mend it’!” repeated Rose. “Nay! the Lord mend you, and give you repentance, if it be His will. And now, if you think it good, begin at the feet, and burn to the head also. For he that set you a-work shall pay you your wages one day, I warrant you.”
And with this touch of sarcasm—only just enough to show how well she could have handled that weapon if she had chosen to fight with it—Rose calmly went her way, wetted a rag, and bound up her injured hand, and then drew the ale and carried it to her mother.
“How long hast thou been, child!” said her mother, who of course had no notion what had been going on downstairs.
“Ay, Mother; I am sorry for it,” was the quiet reply. “Master Tyrrel stayed me in talk for divers minutes.”
“What said he to thee?” anxiously demanded Alice.
“He asked me if I did mean to entreat you and my father to be good Catholics; and when I denied the same, gave me some ill words.”
Rose said nothing about the burning, and as she dexterously kept her injured hand out of her mother’s sight, all that Alice realised was that the girl was a trifle less quick and handy than usual.
“She’s a good, quick maid in the main,” said she to herself: “I’ll not fault her if she’s upset a bit.”
While Rose was helping her mother to dress, the Bailiff was questioning her step-father whether any one else was in the house.