And so the grandmother got her soothed and hushed, and at last she lay still and silent. But she had been thinking.
"Grandmother," said she, regarding her thin, wasted hand, "is my face like that?"
"Hush thee, child; thou must not speak more now, or the doctor will be scolding me."
"But tell me, grandmother," she pleaded.
"Why, then," she answered, evasively, "it be none so plump as it were—but all that will mend—ay, ay, good lass, 'twill mend, surely."
Again she lay silent for a while, but her mind was busy with its own fears.
"Grandmother," she said, "will you promise me this—to keep Quiney away? You will not let him come into the room, good grandmother, should he ever come over to the cottage?"
"Ay, and be this thy thanks, then, to him that rode all the way to London town to bring thy father to thee?" said the old dame, with some affectation of reproach. "Were I at thy age I would have a fairer message for him."
"A message, grandmother?" the girl said, turning her languid eyes to her with some faint eagerness. "Ay, that I would send him willingly. He went to London for me, that I know; Prudence said so. But perchance he would not care to have it, would he, think you?"
The old dame listened, to make sure that the doctor was not within hearing, for this talking was forbidden; but she was anxious to have the girl's mind pleased and at rest, and so she took Judith's hand and whispered to her.