“Yes.”
There was a long pause.
“Does he love you?”
Bagga turned her face away. “Yes,” she whispered.
“And you love him too?”
The girl burst into tears. “Yes, mother.”
The widow took her daughter in her arms. “God’s blessing, my child. No need to be sorry for that. By the look of him, he is not one to change.”
CHAPTER XI
Guest the One-eyed felt both ill and tired when, after bidding farewell to Bagga, he limped up towards the farm.
An old man, evidently the master of the place, was busy with some men thatching a hayrick with slabs of turf. The turf lay rolled up and set in piles about on the ground, a couple of hundred rolls, perhaps, in all. It had been a laborious task to cut the pieces thin and even at the edge; the strips were about ten feet long. Two men were busy on the stack, preparing it for the roof, the highest point carefully set so as to give an even slope on all sides. Others were lifting the rolls, taking great care to avoid a break. The farmer himself did but little of the work, being chiefly occupied with looking on and giving orders.