“They say it is not, but it frightens me.”
“Yes, yes, dearie; but them that know are like to be right, and we must always hope for the best. Now here’s the meal for you, and you will not get a better between York and London. Your man—ah, there I go again—the stranger is looking to his horse, no doubt, as a careful traveller should, and we will see to him when he comes in, so do not you wait.”
It was late when Armstrong returned from the stables, for old John’s pack-horse showed signs of distress from travelling between seventy and eighty miles that day, and as the slowest horse in the party sets the pace, the animal had to be seen to and cared for.
After his bounteous supper the young man strolled about the rambling inn, and to his surprise came upon a lonely figure in a dim alcove.
“Dear lass!” he cried, “you should have been at your rest long ago. This will never do,”—but he sat down beside her. The place was narrow and very cosy, as if the oriel window recess had been constructed for two lovers.
“I am not tired,” she said, “and have much to think of, so I knew I could not sleep.”
“You should sleep well after so long a day in the open air. Deep thinking is the enemy of rest, and rather useless in the main. I’ll wager you’re wishing for news from the North.”
“Yes, I was.”
“Well, see the uselessness of that.”
“I know it, but how can one guide one’s thoughts?”