"Nay, I want but the one, grandmother," she said slowly. "You know I cannot write a message to him, and yet I would send him some token of thanks for all that he hath done. And would not that do, grandmother? Could you but find me a pansy—if there be one left anywhere—and a small leaf or two; and if 'twere put in a folded paper, and you could give it him from me, and no one knowing? I would rest the happier, grandmother, for I would not have him think me ungrateful—no, no, he must not think me that. And then, good grandmother, you will tell him that I wish him not to see me; only—only, the little flower will show him that I am not ungrateful; for I would not have him think me that."
"Rest you still now, then, sweeting," the old dame said. "I warrant me we will have the message conveyed to him; but rest you still—rest you still—and ere long you will not be ashamed to show him the roses coming again into your cheeks."
CHAPTER XXXV.
TOWARD THE LIGHT.
This fresh and clear morning, with a south wind blowing and a blue sky overhead, made even the back yard of Quiney's premises look cheerful, though the surroundings were mostly empty barrels and boxes. And he was singing, too, as he went on with his task; sometimes—
"Play on, minstrèl, play on, minstrèl,
My lady is mine only girl;"
and sometimes—
"I bought thee petticoats of the best,
The cloth so fine as fine might be;
I gave thee jewels for thy chest,
And all this cost I spent on thee;"
or, again, he would practise his part in the new catch—