“Why,” says I, “you must certainly be suffering much discomfort, cousin, but I don’t see how we can help it. Will you not endeavour to sit down by me here?--’tis a dampish seat, this heap of stones, but I think you will prefer it to standing. And you have a flask of wine there, and some food--we shall neither of us be the worse for a drop of one and a bite of t’other,” I says. She made no answer for a while, but presently she contrived to seat herself at my side, and brought out the wine and food from beneath her cloak. “You take everything in a very philosophical spirit, Master Richard,” says she, giving me the flask. “Why, faith, cousin,” says I, “why not? ’Tis my humour to take things that way. There was my uncle, now, would fume and fret himself into a fever if all went not as he wished, but it never did him any good that I could see. Take things as they come, say I.” “’Tis a poor fashion,” says she, “for it shows that you have no special care for aught.” “Now methinks ’tis you that wax philosophic,” I says. “And, faith, I don’t follow you. As for caring for aught, why, I have cared for a deal o’ things, but as I never got most of them I came to the conclusion that it was better to want naught.” “Oh,” says she, “and what, pray, did you care for and want that you didn’t get?” “Why,” says I, “I wanted to be a country gentleman, with no more anxiety than the rearing of cattle and the making of an occasional ballad or sonnet.” “Oh, a poet!” says she. “Why, say a rhymester,” says I. “Heigh-ho! I was all for a quiet life--and here I am in a wet ditch, with a lame leg--plague take it!--and as good a chance of being hanged or shot as any man in England. Nevertheless,” says I, “there’s the present enjoyment of conversing with you, cousin, which is----” But there, like a woman, she went off at a tangent. “Master Richard,” says she, “what made you turn rebel?” “Cousin,” says I, drawing my leg out of the water where I had kept it till it was numbed through. “Why do you ask me such a question?” “Because,” says she, “you observed just now that you cared for naught, and I don’t understand how a man can join a cause unless he has some care for it.” “Lord!” says I. “You are too deep for me. I must have meant--nay, faith,” I says, “I don’t think I know what I did mean.” She laughed merrily at that--I think it was the first time since I came to the Manor. “Why, let me help you to your wits,” says she. “Would you join the rebels to-morrow, if you were able?” “Aye, indeed!” says I. “And why?” says she. “Because my sympathies are with them,” says I. “I am for liberty and against oppression. Being a true Englishman,” I says, “I hate this Star-Chambering and extortioning of honest folk’s money.” “I wonder how much you know about it,” says she. “About as much as yourself,” says I. “God save the King!” says she. “Faith, he needs it!” says I.