“Not a drop will I touch until my sister has drunk,” said Gervase.
“Ye called her friend just now,” said Mistress Plackett grimly.
“Sister and friend,” said the young man, with a profound air. “He who finds a friend in a sister has a sister for a friend.”
Gervase spoke with much gravity, as if this gem of philosophy was worthy of the deepest consideration. He had already grasped the truth that there are occasions in life when it matters little what is said so long as it be well said. And in that age he would have been a poor-witted fellow who having been bred as a scholar could not readily assume the garb of wisdom.
Yet after all it may have been less Gervase Heriot’s whimsical readiness that prevailed with the good wife than his charming voice, his tall, fine person and his gracious, manly air. When all was said this was no Egyptian. None of the tribe of lawless wanderers could have shown such a delicacy of manners when hunger drove him hard.
“Ye can both drink your fill,” said Mistress Poll Plackett.
They needed no second invitation. Anne drank first of the warm, delicious draught, that might have been ambrosia straight from heaven. Then drank Gervase.
“Good mother,” he said as he gave back the pail, “two wayfardingers will remember you in their prayers this night. And our prayers, alas! must be your only guerdon. But from our hearts we thank you.”
Mistress Poll shook her head. “Let it be so,” she said gruffly. “Although you can’t cut ice with thank you, still I don’t begrudge the milk, young man. But my advice to you is this: when you come to a bush give your young doxey a sound beating, that she may learn not to ape her betters in such a shameless livery.”