“Please, Mr Wastborowe, we mustn’t expect to be taken better care of than the Lord Jesus; and He had to suffer, you know. But it won’t signify when we get to Heaven, I suppose.”
“Heretics don’t go to Heaven!” replied Wastborowe.
“I don’t know what heretics are,” said Cissy; “but every body who loves the Lord Jesus is sure to get there. Satan would not want them, you know; and Jesus will want them, for He died for them. He’ll look after us, I expect. Don’t you think so, Mr Wastborowe?”
“Hold thy noise!” said the gaoler, rising, with the empty jug in his hand. He wanted some more ale, and he was tired of amusing himself with Cissy.
“Hush thee, my little maid!” said her father, laying his hand on her head.
“Is he angry, Father?” asked Cissy, looking up. “I said nothing wrong, did I?”
“There’s somewhat wrong,” responded he, “but it’s not thee, child.”
Meanwhile Wastborowe was crossing the court to his own house, jug in hand. Opening the door, he set down the jug on the table, with the short command, “Fill that.”
“You may tarry till I’ve done,” answered Audrey, calmly ironing on. She was the only person in the place who was not afraid of her husband. In fact, he was afraid of her when, as he expressed it, she “was wrong side up.”
“Come, wife! I can’t wait,” replied Wastborowe in a tone which he never used to any living creature but Audrey or a priest.