On an afternoon late in May I was feeling less pain, and could permit the covers to rest on me, and was impatient for a dish o' porridge. About five o'clock Penelope brought me a bowl of chocolate. When she had seated herself near me, she took her sewing from her apron pocket, and stitched away busily whilst I drank my sweet, hot brew, and watched her over the blue bowl's edge.
"Are you better this afternoon, sir?" she inquired presently, not lifting her eyes.
I told her, fretfully, that I was but a lame dog and fit only to be knocked on the head by some obliging Tory. "I'm sick o' life," said I, "where no one heeds me, and I am left alone all day without food or companionship, to play at twiddle-thumb."
At that she looked at me in sweet concern, but, seeing me wear a wry grin, smiled too.
"Poor lad," said she, "it is nearly a month you lie there so patiently."
"Not patiently; no! And if I knew more oaths than I think up all day long it might ease me to endure more meekly this accursed sickness.... What is it you sew?"
"Wrist-bands."
"Whose?"
As she offered no reply I supposed that she was making a pair o' bands for Nick.
"Do you hear further from Albany?" I inquired.