“Nay, I scarce looked at her.”
“I am going soon to the house to have my hands dressed.”
“What need for that when the goodwife here could do it?”
“I could scarce be such a churl as to refuse when I was bidden,” said Wat, hotly.
Hugh stared at him, not understanding the change from the Wat who fled the company of his elders, caring for none but hare-brained prentices; and as the days went by he grew more and more puzzled. Wat’s hands seemed long in getting well, at any rate they required to be frequently inspected by Mistress Tirell, and it was remarkable that he could talk of naught but his new friends. He had always preferred the carving of curious and grotesque creatures, leaving all finer and more graceful work to Hugh. But now he implored Hugh to let him have the fashioning of a small kneeling angel.
“Thou!” cried the other, amazed. “What has put that into thy head? It is not the work that thou carest for.”
“I have a mind for it when my hands are well. Prithee, Hugh!”
“Nay, thou wilt stick some grinning face on the poor angel’s shoulders.”
“Not I. I am going to try to shape something like Mistress Thomasin—well, why dost thou laugh?”
“What has come to thee, Wat? Since that day in the meadows it has been naught but Thomasin, Thomasin! Now I think of it, perhaps the fairies bewitched thee, since it was Midsummer Eve!” Perhaps Master Gervase guessed more clearly than Hugh what was the magic that had wrought this change, for though he laughed a good deal, he kept Wat occupied after the first three or four days were past, and Prothasy undertook to do all that was now necessary for the hurt hands. It was remarkable that under her care they seemed to improve more rapidly than at one time appeared probable, so that it was not very long before Wat was able to handle his chisel again, though from the great sighs he emitted Hugh was afraid the pain might be more than he allowed.