“Only two years and a half,” Hugh raised himself on one elbow, “and do but feel the thick of my right arm there. And at Warwick school when they taught us sword-play I learnt enough to worst Master Peregrine, I am sure. And I can stick to my saddle as well as he, though I never have anything to ride but a plough horse. And I have not even that now,” he went on, with an effort at a laugh, “since all have been taken to mount Uncle Thomas’s troop. But Peregrine will have a horse and a sword of his own and go to the wars. Do you understand what ’tis I mean, Lois?” “Yes,” Lois replied with a downward look and a quiver of the mouth. “You will think ’tis girl’s folly in me, but I have felt what you mean when I have seen Martha and Anne have new gowns, and I must wear my old frock still.” There was another long silence, broken this time by Lois. “Hugh,” she half whispered, “I believe we are very wicked and ungrateful to our kinsfolk.” “I do not believe so,” the boy answered doggedly; “they have given us nothing but food and clothes, and one craves other things besides.” Lois nodded without speaking, then fetched a breath like a sob. “Lois!” Hugh cried in honest alarm; he had never seen her thus before, “don’t cry. I am ashamed I bore myself so unmanly to hurt you. Don’t cry.” He took her hand in his, and tried to think of something comforting to say. Lois bit her lips and made not another sound till she could answer with only a slight tremble: “What you spoke of, made me feel lonely.” “I am sorry I spoke so,” Hugh said contritely, still holding her hand. “Shall we go look for apples now?” The girl shook her head: “Prithee, do not put me off, Hugh, and do not reproach yourself; I am not sorry that you spoke so. You are the only one to whom I can talk of such things, here at Everscombe.” “And you are the only one I have been able to talk to of anything that touches me nearly, these two years since my mother died.—Do you know, Lois, I sometimes think you look like her. She had brown hair like yours, for she was a true Oldesworth and dark. Now I am a Gwyeth, and so I come rightly by my red hair.” “You shall not slander it so,” Lois interrupted. “Aunt Delia calls it red. I care not for the color, but I’d like to let it grow.” Hugh ran his fingers through his cropped hair. “Would you turn Cavalier?” Lois asked half seriously. “Most gentlemen wear their hair long; even my grandfather and Uncle Nathaniel, for all they hold to Parliament.” “Master Thomas Oldesworth has cut his close; he says all soldiers do so in Germany.” “My father did not,” Hugh answered quickly. “And he had more experience in the German wars than ever Uncle Tom will have.” “Tell me about him again, Hugh, if you will,” Lois begged.