She had sat down below him on the ground and laid her chin upon his knee, and so she waited with her eyes upon his face.
“My old master that learned me to read and to write, and unloosed the singing tongue of me, dwelleth in Malvern Priory. He said, if ever I had a golden-haired daughter—Well, thou shalt take a copy of the Vision to him, Calote. Give it to the porter at the gate,—and bide. Thy mother shall say round and about Cornhill that thou art gone to mine old home, to take the Vision to the old master. He is called Brother Owyn.”
“Father, father!” she cried, “I am filled full of myself, and mine own desire. Wherefore dost thou not beat me and lock me behind doors,—so other fathers would do?”
He smiled wistfully, and kissed her: “So! now thou hast thy will, thou 'lt play penitent. Nay,—hush thee, hush thee, my sweet! 'T is time for laughter now, and joyousness. Thou 'rt going forth to learn all men to love one another. Be comforted; dry thy tears!”
“I am a very wicked wight!” she sobbed. “I will not leave thee.”
“Thou art aweary, my dear one, the dawn cometh. Go thou to rest, and the morrow all will be bright. When dost thou set forth o' this pilgrimage?”
“On the morrow!” she whispered; and then with more tears, “But I will not go, father,—forgive me!”
He gathered her into his arms and carried her through the weeds and up the wooden stair to the door of the gabled room.
“Go in,” he said, “and sleep! There are yet a fifty lines lacking to the copy of the Vision that thou wilt take with thee; I must write them in.”
But when he was come back to the long dark room, he lit no rush for an hour or more; instead, he paced back and forth, talking with himself:—