“O Phyllis, thou’rt a good maid. I would I were half as good as thou!”
“If I am good at all, dear Rica, Jesu Christ hath done it; and He will do it for thee, for the asking.”
So the cousins parted in more peace than either of them would once have thought possible.
For some hours Amphillis was in serious doubt whether she would not share the fate of her cousin. Perrote pleaded for her, it seemed, in vain; even Mrs Margaret added her gentle entreaties, and was sharply bidden to hold her tongue. But when, on the afternoon of that eventful day, Amphillis went, as was now usual, to mount guard in the Countess’s chamber, she was desired, in that lady’s customary manner—
“Bid Avena Foljambe come and speak with me.”
Amphillis hesitated an instant, and her mistress saw it.
“Well? Hast an access (a fit of the gout), that thou canst not walk?”
“Dame, I cry your Grace mercy. I am at this present ill in favour of my Lady Foljambe, and I scarce know if she will come for my asking.”
The Countess laughed the curt, bitter laugh which Amphillis had so often heard from her lips.
“Tell her she may please herself,” she said; “but that if she be not here ere the hour, I’ll come to her. I am not yet so sick that I cannot crawl to the further end of the house. She’ll not tarry to hear that twice, or I err.”