“Ha! yes!” said the Churchwarden softly, leaning forward to light a spill amongst the glowing logs. “There’s a bit o’ trouble about that. Half-a-dozen of ’em’s taking Humphrey Bone’s side against parson, and they want me to join.”
“But you will not, I hope, sir?” said Luke, anxiously.
“I should, my lad, but for Master Humphrey’s drink. He’s not a man to have the care of boys.”
“No, sir, indeed,” said Luke, who paused, while the ruddy servant lass brought in a napkin-covered tray, with the bread and cheese, and a great pewter tankard of home-brewed ale.
“Help thyself, lad,” said the Churchwarden; “and now what is it?”
“I must speak out plainly, sir, or not at all,” said Luke, excitedly.
“Surely, my lad,” said the other, watching him keenly, as he poured out some ale.
Luke hesitated for a few moments, and then tried to clear his voice, but failed, and spoke huskily as he rose from his seat.
“Mr Portlock,” he said, “you have known me from a boy.”
“And always liked thee, my lad, and made thee welcome,” still watching him keenly.