"Missis—here be the London gentleman," said a great benevolent-looking laborer who stood near the door.
"Eh? Oh, come in, sir. Declare I near forgot you in the hurry of it. Saul, my boy, take the things from the gentleman, there's a dearr lamb."
A tall boy about sixteen came forward, and held out his hands for the easel with a lovely smile.
Mr. Cranmer resigned his burden with a momentary admiration of the beauty of the West of England peasantry, and came forward to where Mrs. Battishill was standing.
"As I was saying, sir, I grudges nothing; the time, nor the food, nor the bed, nor anything; but if he could have managed to fall ill at any other time than right on top o' my hay harvest! Lord knows how I'm going to dû! There'll be thirty men to feed to-morrow, sir, count heads all round, and it's one woman's work to get ready the victuals, I can tell you, and Clara and the gal doing everything wrong if I so much as turns my head away! And if I'm to be up all night——"
He was able to calm her considerably with the hope of the village nurse's speedy arrival, and was on the point of asking to go up and see the patient, when a clatter of hoofs was heard, and the doctor appeared on the scene.
He was a rough, surly, middle-aged man, totally without any modern ideas of comfort or consideration, but with broken limbs and broken heads he was in his element, for he had a sharp practice amongst the quarrymen.
Mrs. Battishill went upstairs with him, and Claud sat on the kitchen-table, swinging his legs.
"Clara," said he, "I am most fearfully hungry."
A giggle went round the assembly, as Clara, blushing rosy red, ran to get him some bread and cream, and a draught of cider.