'Mistress Gifford's son,' Jenkyns said, 'his mother is crying out for him amain, poor soul! She is in a bad case—you'd best look after her, there's blood running down from a cut on her forehead. Here!' calling to one of the women, 'here, if the Mistress won't come, you'd best do so—and bring a pitcher of water with you, for she is like to swoon, by the looks of her.'
'You mind your own business, Amice,' Mistress Forrester said, as she smoothed down her coarse homespun skirt, and settled the hood on her head. 'You bide where you are, and see the poultry are fed, as she who ought to have fed 'em isn't here.'
'Nor ever will be again, mayhap,' said Jenkyns wrathfully. 'Come on, Ned, it will take two to bear her home, poor thing. Don't let the boy see her till we've washed her face—blood always scares children.'
'I daresay it's a scratch,' Mistress Forrester said, as she filled a pewter pot with water, and followed the shepherd and Ned to the place where Mary lay.
Even Mistress Forrester was moved to pity as she looked down on her stepdaughter's face, and heard her murmur.
'Ambrose! my boy! He is stolen from me. Oh! for pity's sake, find him.'
'Stolen! stolen! not a bit of it,' Mistress Forrester said. 'I warrant he is a-bed and asleep, for he is seldom up till sunrise.'
'He was with me,' Mary gasped, 'he was with me, when I fell. I was running from him—and—he has stolen him from me.'
'Dear sake! who would care to steal a child? There, there, you are light-headed. Drink a drop of water, and we'll get you home and a-bed. I'll plaister the cut with lily leaves and vinegar, and I warrant you'll be well in a trice.'
They moistened Mary's lips with water, and Jenkyns sprinkled her forehead; and then Jenkyns, with Ned's help, raised Mary from the ground and carried her towards the house.