"Oh, I have many affairs on hand," said he; "and yet I like not the garden to be so empty. I cannot spare thee over here much longer. 'Tis better when thou art in the garden, and little Bess with thee—nay, I swear to thee thou disturbest me not—and so must thou get quickly well and home again."
He took her hand—the thin, worn, white hand—and patted it.
"Why," said he, "I hear they told thee some foolish story about me. Believe them not, lass. Thou and I are old friends, despite thy saucy ways, and thy laughing at the young lads about, and thy lecturing of little Bess Hall—oh, thou hast thy faults—a many of them too—but heed no idle stories, good lass, that come between me and thee. Nay, I will have a sharp word for thee an thou do not as the doctor bids; and thou must rest thee still and quiet, and trouble not thy head, for we want thee back to us at New Place. Why, I tell thee I cannot have the garden left so empty; wouldst have me with none to talk with but goodman Matthew? So now farewell for the moment, good wench; get what sleep thou canst, and take what the doctor bids thee; why, knowest thou not of the ribbons and gloves I have brought thee all the way from London? I warrant me they will please thee!"
He patted her hand again, and rose and left, as if it were all a matter of course. For a minute or two after the girl looked dazed and bewildered, as if she were trying to recall many things; but always she kept looking at the hand that he had held, and there was a pleased light in her sad and tired eyes. She lay still and silent—for so she had been enjoined.
But by-and-by she said, in a way that was like the ghost of Judith's voice of old,
"Grandmother—I can scarce hold up my hand—will you help me? What is this that is on my head?"
"Why, 'tis a pretty lace cap that Susan brought thee," the grandmother said, "and we would have thee smart and neat ere thy father came in."
But she had got her hand to her head now, and then the truth became known to her. She began to cry bitterly.
"Oh, grandmother, grandmother," she said, or sobbed, "they have cut off my hair, and my father will never look with favor on me again. 'Twas all he ever praised!"
"Dearie, dearie, thy hair will grow again as fair as ever—ay, and who ever had prettier?" the old grandmother said. "Why, surely; and the roses will come to thy cheeks, too, that were ever the brightest of any in the town. Thy father—heardst thou not what he said a moment ago—that he could not bear to be without thee? Nay, nay, fret not, good lass, there be plenty that will right gladly wait for the growing of thy hair again—ay, ay, there be plenty and to spare that will hold thee in high favor and think well of thee—and thy father most of all of them—have no fear!"