“Here’s a Coil!”
“Hugh, when will it be finished—truly? I am so weary of to-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow, and it never gets any nearer! Father is longing, too, for all he pretends to be patient.”
“It is finished now,” answered Hugh, gloomily, “only I cannot keep my hands from it.”
“In good sooth! And art not glad?”
“Nay. It is not what I would have it. I had such brave ideas, and they have all come to naught, as ever. Joan, will one ever be satisfied?”
“I have heard father say something about ‘a noble discontent.’ I did not understand it, but maybe this was in his mind. And I don’t think he is ever satisfied with his own work. But thine is sure to be beautiful,” cried Joan, brightening. “Is it really then to be to-morrow?”
“Nay; the bishop has decided that as four or five are nearly ready, they shall wait to be uncovered together on Lammas Day. The best is to have the choice of the other corbels.”
“And which shalt thou choose?” demanded Joan securely.
“There will be no choosing for me. Master Hamlyn has a beautiful design of pears and apples, they say, and Franklyn of vine leaves, and there is that traitor Roger, he can work. I shall grudge it to him, but not to old Wat. Joan, I verily believe that Wat’s will be one of the best.”
“Hath he really stuck Spot up there?”