She sprang out of bed, tumbling the hay in all directions.
"Master Wheatman, I will not pretend to misunderstand you, and indeed, I thank you, but you are going to put your bed here," stamping her foot, "so that we can talk without raising our voices. I am much more willing to sleep in the same barn with you than in the same town with my Lord Brocton. Where's your share of the sacks?"
I did without sacks, but I fetched more chunks of hay, and she helped me strew a bed for myself close up to her own. I tucked her up once more, and then made myself cosy. I was miserable lest I should snore. Yokels so often do. Joe Braggs, for instance, would snore till the barn door rattled.
I remembered the cordial, and we each had a good pull at the flask. I felt for days the touch of her smooth, soft fingers on mine as she took it.
"It certainly does warm you up," she said. "I feel all aglow without and within."
"Then I may take it that you are comfortable?"
"If it were not for two things, I should say this was a boy-and-girl escapade of ours, every moment of which was just pure enjoyment."
"Naturally you are uneasy about your father, but I cannot think he will come to any immediate harm. Why Brocton should send him north instead of south is, I confess, a mystery, but to-morrow will solve it. And what else makes you uneasy?"
"You," she replied, very low and brief.
"I? And pray, madam, what have I done to make you uneasy?"