Swiftly and secretly the old dame sent across to the town; and not to Prudence only, but also (for she was grown anxious) to Mistress Hall, to say that if her husband were like to return soon to Stratford he might come over and see Judith, who was far from well. As for Prudence, a word was sufficient to bring her; she was there straightway.
She found Judith very much as she had left her, but somewhat more restless and feverish perhaps, and then again hopelessly weak and languid, and always with those racking pains in the head. She said it was nothing—it would soon pass away; it was but a chill she had caught in sitting on the river-bank; would not Prudence now go back to her duties and her affairs in the house?
"Judith," said her friend, leaning over her and speaking low, "I have that to tell thee will comfort thee, methinks."
"Nay, I cannot listen to it now," was the answer—and it was a moan almost. "Dear mouse, do not trouble about me—but my head is so bad that I—that I care not now. And the parson is gone away, thinking that I have wronged him also—'tis ever the same now—oh, sweetheart, my head, my head!"
"But listen, Judith," the other pleaded. "Nay, but you must know what your friends are ready to do for you—this surely will make thee well, sweetheart. Think of it now; do you know that Quiney is gone to see your father?"
"To my father!" she repeated, and she tried to raise her head somewhat, so that her eyes might read her friend's face.
"I am almost sure of it, dear heart," Prudence said, taking her hot hand in hers. "Nay, he would have naught said of it. None of his family know whither he is gone, and I but guess. But this is the manner of it, dear Judith—that he and I were talking, and sorely vexed he was that your father should be told a wrong story concerning you—ay, and sorry to see you so shaken, Judith, and distressed; and said he, 'What if I were to get a message to her from her father—that he was in no such mood of anger—and had not heard the story aright—and that he was well disposed to her, and grieved to hear she had taken it so much to heart—would not that comfort her?' he said. And I answered that assuredly it would, and even more perchance than he thought of; and I gathered from him that he would write to some one in London to go and see your father, and pray him to send you assurance of that kind. But now—nay, I am certain of it, dear Judith—I am certain that he himself is gone all the way to London to bring thee back that comfort; and will not that cheer thee now, sweetheart?"
"He is doing all that for me?" the girl said, in a low voice, and absently.
"Ah, but you must be well and cheerful, good mouse, to give him greeting when he comes back," said Prudence, striving to raise her spirits somewhat. "Have I not read to thee many a time how great kings were wont to reward the messengers that brought them good news?—a gold chain round their neck, or lands perchance. And will you have no word of welcome for him? Will you not meet him with a glad face? Why, think of it now—a journey to London—and the perils and troubles by the way—and all done to please thee. Nay, he would say naught of it to any one—lest they might wonder at his doing so much for thee, belike—but when he comes back 'twere a sorry thing that you should not give him a good and gracious welcome."
Judith lay silent and thinking for a while, and then she said—but as if the mere effort to speak were too much for her—