"It is a pity she should be the wife of such a carle"—mused his lord.
That afternoon De Boteler, throwing a plain dark cloak over his rich dress, left the castle, took the path that led to Holgrave's abode, and raising the latch, entered the cottage.
Margaret was sitting near the window at needle-work, and Edith in her high-backed arm-chair, was knitting in the chimney-corner. Margaret blushing deeply, started from her seat as her eyes so unexpectedly encountered those of the baron.
"Keep your seat, pretty dame," said De Boteler. "That is a stout silk. For whom are you working these bright colours?"
"It is a stole for my brother, the monk, my lord," replied Margaret in a tremulous voice.
"Your work is so beautiful" returned De Boteler, looking at the silk, "that I wish you could find time to embroider a tabard for me."
"My lord," replied Edith, rising from her seat and stepping forward a few paces, "Margaret Holgrave has little leisure from attending to the household of her husband. There are abundance of skilful sempstresses; and surely the Baron de Boteler would not require this young woman to neglect the duty she has taken upon herself."
De Boteler looked at Edith an instant with a frown, as if about to answer fiercely; but after a moment he inquired calmly,
"Does your son find his farm answer, dame?"
"Yes, my lord, with many thanks to the donor. Stephen has all he can wish for in this farm."