The hours passed; he knew nothing of them. He was awakened by Judith's father, and he looked around him strangely, for he saw by the light that it was now afternoon.
"Good lad," said he, "I make no scruple of rousing you. There is better news. She is awake, and quite calm and peaceable, and in her right mind—though sadly weak and listless, poor wench."
"Have you seen her—have you spoken with her?" he said, eagerly.
"Nay, not yet," Judith's father said. "I am doubtful. She is so faint and weak. I would not disturb her——"
"I pray you, sir, go and speak with her!" Quiney entreated. "Nay, I know that will give her more peace of mind than anything. And if she begin to recall what happened ere she fell ill—I pray you, sir, of your kindness, go and speak with her."
Judith's father went away to the house slowly, and with his head bent in meditation. He spoke to the doctor for a few minutes. But when, after some deliberation, he went up-stairs and into the room, it was his own advice, his own plan, he was acting on.
He went forward to the bedside and took the chair that the old grandmother had instantly vacated, and sat down just as if nothing had occurred.
"Well, lass, how goes it with thee?" he said, with an air of easy unconcern. "Bravely well, I hear. Thou must haste thee now, for soon we shall be busy with the brewing."
She regarded him in a strange way, perhaps wondering whether this was another vision. And then she said, faintly,
"Why are you come back to Stratford, father?"