“And my mistress, and Jeannette, and the lad?” I asked.
“They are naught to thee,” answered he, curtly.
“Are they here?” I asked again.
“I tell thee that is naught to thee, Humphrey Dexter. I marvel, after what is past, you dare name them.”
“By heavens, you shall have something to marvel at,” said I, laying hold of him by the collar, and shaking him till his bones rattled. “Answer me, are they here?”
“To be sure, to be sure,” gasped he. “I pray you unhand me, Humphrey; my old friend, you are too rough.”
I flung him off, to the mirth of the new journeyman (who, it was plain, loved him no more than I), and walked through the shop to the parlour behind.
There in a nook beside the window, which was open to let in the sweet scent of the spring and the merry chirping of the birds, sat my sweet young mistress, Jeannette, reading out of a book to the little sister who sat on her knee; and ever and anon looking out at the swift, shining river, as it washed past the garden wall.
I remember the very words she was reading as I entered unheeded.
“‘So it fell, that knight returned, and none knew him; no, not even the dog in the outer court. But when he spake, there was a certain little maid knew his voice, whom, as a child, he was wont to make sport with. But now, because she was grown from child to woman, and her mirth was turned to love, did she say never a word when he appeared, but ran away and hid herself.’”