Busied with my flowers ye chief o' the forenoon, I was fayn to rest in the pavilion, when, entering therein, whom shoulde I stumble upon but William, layd at length on ye floor, with his arms under his head, and his book on ye ground. I was withdrawing brisklie enow, when he called out, "Don't goe away, since you are here," in a tone soe rough, soe unlike his usual key, as that I paused in a maze, and then saw that his eyes were red. He sprung to his feet and sayd, "Meg, come and talk to me," and, taking my hand in his, stepped quicklie forthe without another word sayd, till we reached the elm-tree walk. I marvelled to see him soe moven, and expected to hear somewhat that shoulde displease me, scarce knowing what; however, I might have guest at it from then till now, without ever nearing ye truth. His first words were, "I wish Erasmus had ne'er crost ye thresholde; he has made me very unhappie;" then, seeing me stare, "Be not his council just now, dear Meg, but bind up, if thou canst, the wounds he has made.... There be some wounds, thou knowest, though but of a cut finger or the like, that we can not well bind up for ourselves."
I made answer, "I am a young and unskilled leech."
He replyed, "But you have a quick wit, and patience, and kindnesse, and, for a woman, are not scant of learning."
"Nay," I sayd, "but Mr. Gunnel—"
"Gunnel would be the last to help me," interrupts Will, "nor can I speak to your father. He is alwaies too busie now ... besides—"
"Father Francis," I put in.
"Father Francis?" repeats Will, with a shake o' the head and a ruefull smile, "dost thou think, Meg, he coulde answer me if I put to him Pilate's question, 'What is truth?'"
"We know alreadie," quoth I.
Sayth Will, "What do we know?"
I paused, then made answer reverentlie, "That Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life."