“I can walk now, Humphrey; voilà. That was one good thing your going did for me.”
“I would it had been any other good,” said I, “for it was pleasant to help you. But, see, you still want some help.”
“Well, sometimes I walk better. But to-night—no, I am not a baby, truly,” said she, laughing as I offered to take her up. “Give me your arm, Humphrey; that is enough.”
So I helped her up the stairs, and at the top she thanked me, and said she was glad I was come back, for her father’s sake—meaning Master Walgrave, her step-father.
I asked was she glad for no reason else? and she said, perhaps for my sake ’twas good to be at work once more.
“Anyone’s sake besides?”
“Peut-être,” said she in her French jargon, vanishing into her chamber. I was a better scholar than I once was, and could translate the words in a way that made my heart beat.
So I left her and came down to supper.
There I found Peter Stoupe, very black in the face, awaiting me. He tried to look civil as I came to the table, but ’twas plain he had little stomach for his meal.
“My master telleth me,” said he, “he is content to give thee another trial, Humphrey. Pray heaven he may never hear how much it is he forgiveth thee. As for me, this folly of his is like to cost him my service, as I told him.”