“Come here to my knee, lass,” said Hirst by and by.
She knelt on the patch-work rug, and put her hands on his knee and rested her head on them, looking into the fireless grate. So she had knelt in childhood’s days—and afterwards at rare intervals when she and Yeoman Hirst were moved to special tenderness.
“I won’t deny my pride’s had a fall, and a steepish one,” he went on, thinking that his touch upon her hair was gentle.
“So has mine, father; but life must go on, pride in one’s way or not.”
“Art going to be a lile wise-woman before thy time? Ay, pride tumbles and gets muckied, and ye’ve to clean it up again wi’ patience, as ye clean harness gear. Still, I’m sticking to my pride, Cilla, till they coffin me up, and so are ye; the Hirsts all do, by nature.”
They said nothing for awhile, but between them was the speech of trust and understanding.
“Cilla, lass?” said the yeoman presently.
“Yes, daddy?”
“Wish I knew more about this daft business. Wish ye could tell me, like, just what ye saw up yond green pasture-lands to-day.”
“I wish so, too,” she answered simply; “but I cannot tell you, father.”