“I don’t know of any, sir,” said Maine, “only Tom Podmore’s dreadfully put out about Daisy Banks, and the strike people are growing more bitter every day. If I do hear of anything, sir, I’ll tell you.”
They came directly upon old Bultitude, looking bluff and ruddy in his velveteens and gaiters.
“Ah, parson, fine day! how are you? What’s the matter?”
“Well, Maine here isn’t well,” said the vicar.
“What’s wrong, lad? Why, thou said’st nowt when you came in a bit ago.”
“Oh, it’s nothing, sir, nothing,” said John Maine, hastily.
“Let him go and lie down for an hour,” said the vicar, looking at the young man’s ghastly face.
“Not got fever, hev you, my lad?” said the old gentleman kindly, as they walked up to the house. “Here, Jess, pull down the blinds in the far room, and let John Maine come and lie down a bit theer.”
At his summons, Jessie’s young, pleasant face appeared at the window. It had no more pretensions to beauty than a pair of soft, dark eyes, and a bright, rosy colour, and the eyes looked very wistfully at John Maine, who now made an effort.
“No, no, sir,” he said. “I won’t lie down. I’ll get to work again; there’s nothing like forgetting pain.”