Aline had brought some beautiful roses whose fragrance filled the whole place. Joan’s eyes quite sparkled with pleasure.
“Oh, Mistress Aline, how lovely!”
“I said you were to call me Aline, just as I call you Joan,” and Aline kissed the little thin hand that seemed almost transparent. “Now you must soon get well and be able to come and play games again; and see what I brought you to wear when you can run about.”
Aline’s own wardrobe was very scanty, but one day Master Richard had brought back from York a piece of good camlet which he had given to Aline as a special present. “May I do just what I like with it?” she had asked. “Of course,” he replied. So Aline had coaxed Elspeth to help her, and, with much excitement, had made Joan an attractive little gown. Aline was rather at a loss for some trimming that she wanted and Audry had found her one day taking some off one of her own garments. She had expostulated but Aline had only said,—“Oh, it looks all right; I have left some on the upper part. I do not mind plain things.”
Joan’s gratitude was too great for words; she could only gently squeeze Aline’s hand.
As Aline sat by the bedside the door opened and a dark bent figure appeared against the light.
“Good-day, Peter,” she said, and catching sight of Aline she added, “and good-day to you, Mistress.”
Moll had once been a fairly tall woman, but like Peter was now bent, although not to so great an extent and was never seen without her stick. Her face, wrinkled and worn as it was, more from evil living than from actual age, as she was not really very old, still had some trace of its original beauty, but there was a cruelty and cunning in its expression that defied description. All the children were frightened of “Moll o’ the graves” and would flee at her approach.
“You have a sick bairn here, Peter,” she began, ignoring Aline, “and I have been wondering whether I could not help you.”