“No, no, neighbour,” she said; “but how sweet, how sweet it is!”
“Of course it is,” said he, “but do you care so much for that?”
She laughed out musically, and we followed suit in our gruffer voices; and then she said: “Of course I do, neighbour; don’t you?”
“Well, I don’t know,” quoth the old fellow; then he added, as if somewhat ashamed of himself: “Besides, you know, when the waters are out and all Runnymede is flooded, it’s none so pleasant.”
“I should like it,” quoth Dick. “What a jolly sail one would get about here on the floods on a bright frosty January morning!”
“Would you like it?” said our host. “Well, I won’t argue with you, neighbour; it isn’t worth while. Come in and have some supper.”
We went up a paved path between the roses, and straight into a very pretty room, panelled and carved, and as clean as a new pin; but the chief ornament of which was a young woman, light-haired and grey-eyed, but with her face and hands and bare feet tanned quite brown with the sun. Though she was very lightly clad, that was clearly from choice, not from poverty, though these were the first cottage-dwellers I had come across; for her gown was of silk, and on her wrists were bracelets that seemed to me of great value. She was lying on a sheep-skin near the window, but jumped up as soon as we entered, and when she saw the guests behind the old man, she clapped her hands and cried out with pleasure, and when she got us into the middle of the room, fairly danced round us in delight of our company.
“What!” said the old man, “you are pleased, are you, Ellen?”
The girl danced up to him and threw her arms round him, and said: “Yes I am, and so ought you to be grandfather.”
“Well, well, I am,” said he, “as much as I can be pleased. Guests, please be seated.”