There he spent the day, sleeping some and for the rest lying still as he was bidden, till twilight came on and once more they got to saddle. A little fine rain was sifting down now, and the cold wet on his face refreshed Hugh somewhat, but even then, when they halted at last at the gate of a lonely farm enclosure, he was drooping over his saddle-bow. He noted of the house only that there was a green settle in the living room, the arm of which was of just the right height to rest his head upon, and the loud-voiced woman who had roused up to greet them held a guttering candle so he was assured the dripping wax must soon burn her fingers. After that he remembered Dick helped him to bed in a little upper chamber; the sheets felt good, and he shut his eyes to keep out the troublesome candlelight. “Rain or no, I’m going to push on for Sir William’s house in Worcestershire,” Dick was saying. “You’re safe here with Widow Flemyng, Hugh. And ere long I’ll have you with me again. God keep you till then, old lad!” He bent down and kissed Hugh, who hugged him with a sudden childish feeling that he could not let Dick go. So he turned over with his face in the pillow, broad awake now, and he heard Dick’s boots creaking down the stairway. He lay listening alertly for more, but he heard only the spatter of rain upon the window. CHAPTER XV THE LIFE OF EDMUND BURLEY At one end of the bench outside the garden door of Ashcroft, Widow Flemyng’s great black cat lay sunning himself; at the other end Hugh Gwyeth sat hugging one knee, while he wondered drowsily which were the lazier, he or the cat. In the alert blue spring weather the tips of green things were bursting through the soft mould of the garden; the birds were making a great ado in the trees; and in the field beyond the hedge the widow’s man, Ralph, was ploughing, and whistling as he ploughed. Only Master Hugh Gwyeth lingered idly on the garden bench and meditatively handled the flabby muscles of his arm till he grew impatient with himself. Three weeks and more he had been at Ashcroft, yet this was all the strength he had gained or was likely to gain with sitting still. He dragged the cat, heavy and reluctant, up from its nap, and was trying to coax the creature to jump over his hands, which at least required a little exertion, when Nancy, the serving-maid, came out to potter about the garden. Spying him, she called: “Don’t ’ee vex poor Gib, now. Better get thee into the kitchen; the mistress is at her baking.”