“Anon?” her father questioned, rousing her.
“Is no more to tell: 't was the end o' the Miracle.”
“A poor maid in a cot may not have a squire.” said Will Langland slowly.
“I know that right well; and yet I know not wherefore,” she answered; and now she turned quite away her face, for that her lip trembled.
He made no answer to her wistful question, and there was silence between them while the twilight deepened. But she was busy with her thoughts meanwhile.
“Father,” she began, and laid her hand upon the written parchment by his side, “father,—here in the Vision, thou dost write that the ploughman knoweth the truth. He is so simple wise he counselleth the king how to renew his state which is gone awry. If the knight do the bidding of the ploughman, wherefore shall not Piers' daughter wed the son o' the knight?”
He looked within her eyes most tenderly, his voice was deep with pity; he held her two hands in his own.
“My Calote,—'t is not King Edward, nor King Edward's son, shall be counselled of the ploughman. 'T is a slow world, and no man so slow as the man at the plough. He hath his half acre to sow. Not in my day, nor in thine, shall the knight bethink him to set the ploughman free for pilgrimage to Truth.”
“But if he read thy Vision, father, he will.”
“The knight is likewise slow, Calote. He believeth not on the Vision. I shall be dead afore that time cometh,—and thou.”