“Ah, I suppose they caught ye; well, child, never mind, better luck next time; I am glad to see you.”
“Thank you,” said I, sitting down on the stone bench; “I thought you had left the bridge—why have you changed your side?”
The old woman shook.
“What is the matter with you,” said I, “are you ill?”
“No, child, no; only—”
“Only what? Any bad news of your son?”
“No, child, no; nothing about my son. Only low, child—every heart has its bitters.”
“That’s true,” said I; “well, I don’t want to know your sorrows; come, where’s the book?”
The apple-woman shook more violently than before, bent herself down, and drew her cloak more closely about her than before. “Book, child, what book?”
“Why, blessed Mary, to be sure.”