"Tom of the Footpath must be the devil of a good doctor to make a drive like this worth while. Hold up, Sorrel: we've not much further to go."
It was late in the afternoon when we reached the valley and stopped at the little house where Tom of the Footpath lived.
We carried mother into the musty, stuffy parlour, in which all the little windows were tight shut. There we let her down on the bench and asked for Tom.
A grumpy old woman answered that Tom was not there.
"We can see that," said Steve, "but might we ask where he is?"
"Can't say."
"When's he coming in?"
"Maybe he won't stay out long, maybe he won't be back till night, maybe he's gone to the ale-house."
The old woman left the room; and there we sat. My mother drew a deep breath.
Steve went after the old woman and asked her for a spoonful of hot soup for the invalid.