He wondered weakly why ther were no monasteries in this land and age, to serve as harbors or refuge for those who shrank from the fearfulness of war.
He turned over again wearily, and Aunt Debby, looking toward him, encountered his wide-open eyes.
“Yer awake, air ye?” she said kindly. “Hope I didn't disturb you. I wuz tryin' ter make ez little noise ez possible.”
“No, you didn't rouse me. It's hard for me to sleep in daylight, even when fatigued, as I am.”
“Ef ye want ter git up now,” she said, stopping the whell by pressing the stick against a spoke, and laying the “roll” in her hand upon the wheel-head, “I'll hev some breakfast fur ye in a jiffy. Ye kin rise an' dress while I run down ter the spring arter a fresh bucket o' water.”
She covered her head with a “slat sun-bonnet,” which she took from a peg in the wall, lifted a cedar waterpail from a shelf supported by other long pegs, poured its contents into a large cast-iron teakettle swinging over the fire, and whisked out of the door. Presently the notes of her hymn mingled in plaintive harmony with the sparkling but no sweeter song of a robin redbreast, twittering his delight in the warm sunshine amid the crimson apples of the tree that overhung the spring.
“Will ye hev a fresh drink?” she asked Harry, on her return.
He took the gourdful of clear, cool water, which she offered him, and drank heartily.
“Thet hez the name o' bein' the best spring in these parts,” she said, pleased with his appreciation.
“An' hit's a never-failin' spring, too. We've plenty o' water the dryest times, when everybody else's goes dry.”