“Ah! Master Cobbe,” he cried, “I’ve been remiss in visiting you these last few weeks, but I’m glad to see thee look so well.”
“Well? Master Peasegood,” said the founder, sadly. “Nay, I am not well. Perhaps I am, though—perhaps I am. I have been busy lately, very busy. A goodly store of cannon and ammunition has been sent off to his Majesty this past week.”
“Ay, so I hear,” said the parson.
“But sit down, man. Hey, Mrs Croftly, bring a flagon of ale and the pipes and tobacco. Master Peasegood will sit down here in the garden with me this evening.”
“That I will,” was the hearty response.
A table was placed on one side, and the two friends sat down, drank heartily to one another, and then filled, lit their pipes, and smoked in silence for awhile.
“There’s a nice view from here, Master Cobbe,” said the parson at last.
“Ay, there is,” said the founder; and a longing painful look came upon his deeply-lined face, as he thrust back his rough, white hair and sighed.
“A very pretty view. You like this spot?”
“Yes,” said the founder, slowly, as he pointed with the stem of his little pipe to an opening in the forest beyond the ruins of the Pool-house. “Do you see yon patch of rock where the martins have made their nests?”