The same evening Barbara rode to the smithy, in the hope of hearing some news of Richard from his grandfather. The old man was busy at the anvil when he heard Miss Brown's hoofs on the road. He dropped his hammer, flung the tongs on the forge, and leaving the iron to cool on the anvil, went to meet her.
“How do you do, grandfather?” said Barbara, with unconscious use of the appellation.
Simon was well pleased to be called grandfather, but too politic and too well bred to show his pleasure.
“As well as hard work can help me to. How are you yourself, my pretty?” returned Simon.
“As well as nothing to do—except nursing poor Mark—will let me,” she answered. “Please can you tell me anything about Richard yet?”
“Can you keep a secret, honey?” rejoined Simon. “I ain't sure as I'm keeping strict within the law, but if I didn't think you fit, I shouldn't say a word.”
“Don't tell me, if it be anything I ought to tell if I knew it.”
“If you can show me you ought to tell any one, I will release you from your promise. But perhaps you feel you ought to tell everything to your mother?”
“No, not other people's secrets. But I think I won't have it. I don't like secrets. I'm frightened at them.”
“Then I'll tell you at my own risk, for you're the right sort to trust, promise or no promise. I only hope you will not tell without letting me know first; because then I might have to do something else by way of—what do they call it when you take poison, and then take something to keep it from hurting you?—Richard's gone to college!”