“Good luck to you, Peregrine,” Hugh forced himself to say, then shook off his companion and, passing from the stable yard, trudged away through the wet grass, with the old jealous pang worrying him as savagely as ever. But soon he told himself that his father would probably give him a horse and good weapons too, and, being a colonel in the king’s army, would very likely let him go to the wars with him, perhaps even give him a commission; and, thinking still of his father, by the time he returned to the house he had quite forgotten Peregrine. The rain had nearly ceased; there seemed even a prospect of a clear sunset, and with the lightening of the weather Hugh cast aside the heavy feeling of half-regretful parting which had weighed on him all day and grew impatient for darkness, when he could set out on his journey. But the night came slowly, as any other night, with a rift of watery sunset in the west and mottled yellow clouds, that fading gave place to the long, gray twilight, which deepened imperceptibly. Hugh started early to his room, which was in the east wing, so he went by the staircase from the little hall. Halfway up, as he strode two steps at a time, he almost stumbled over a slight figure that caught at his arm. “Lois!” he cried. The girl rose to her feet. “Why are you angry with me, Hugh?” she asked, and though he could not see her face he knew by her voice she was almost sobbing. “Why did you run away from me yesterday?” he replied, feeling foolish and without excuse. “No matter. I have forgot. But I wanted to have speech with you.” “You waited here to bid me farewell? ’Twas good of you, Lois,” Hugh blurted out. “I am sorry I was so rough to you about yesterday.” “Then we’ll part still friends?” Lois said eagerly. “And here is something you are to take with you.” “Your five shillings?” Hugh broke out, as she pressed the coins into his hand. “Nay, Lois, I cannot.” “You must; ’twill be a long journey, and you have little money, I know. And I shall never have need of such a hoard. Prithee, take it, Hugh, else I shall think you still are angry because I left you yesterday. But truly, ’twas only that I could not bear the thought of your going.” She was crying now in good earnest, and Hugh tried awkwardly to soothe her and whisper her some comfort: he wished she were a boy and could go with him, perhaps even now he could come back some time and fetch her; he never would forget what a good friend she had been to him; and much more he was saying, when Martha’s voice came from below in the dusk of the hall: “Lois.” “I must go,” the girl whispered. “Farewell, Hugh.” “Farewell, Lois.” “God keep you, dear, always.” He heard her go slowly down the stairs and wished she had stayed with him longer; he might have said more cheering things. Then he heard the footsteps of the two girls die away in the hall, and he went on to his room.