"Can I do anything for thee?"
"Nay."
So I could not say one word. Friend Barbara took up her knitting, and I saw that she was rounding the heel of a stocking; and I trust I am truthful, if volatile, when I remember me that I wished I were her knitting-needle. She was very quiet: her ball of yarn slipped away, lacking proper gravitation. "My!" said she, and went and fetched it.
"Has thee ill news from thy people?" she asked, rather restive under my changelessness.
"They are happily easy," said I.
Then she was quiet.
I bethought me that I had my hat in my hand, and would rise to put it upon my head and say farewell, but I could not.
"Thee does not seem so comfortable as thee might be," said she.
"I am comfortable," I said.
Then her yarn rolled away again. Again she said, "My!" and fetched it.