She nodded assent and I looked round. Opening a cupboard, I found half a loaf of bread, a nipperkin of milk, and a rind of cheese. "Eat," said I, "and think it's rabbit-stew." I made her take all the milk, but shared the bread and cheese. Troy went on falling steadily meanwhile, and when we had finished our scanty nuncheon I once more led the way, and we passed out into the little yard behind the schoolhouse, and gained the playground, the outer boundary of which was the town wall, here some twelve feet high and in a fair state of preservation. Many generations of schoolboys had cut and worn a series of big notches on each side of the wall, and by long practice I could run up and down in a trice to fetch ball or tipcat which had been knocked over. From the bridge at the Hanyards onwards, Mistress Waynflete had always acted promptly and exactly to my wish. I felt a boor, and was in truth a boor, in comparison with her. Brocton's 'yokel blood' gibe had put murder into my blows, but it had truth enough in it to make it rankle like a poisoned arrow. Yet here was this wonder-woman, trustful as a child and meeker than a milkmaid. My work was new, but at any rate I had sometimes dreamed that I could do a man's work when I got my chance, and I had limbs of leather and steel to do it with. My thoughts, however, were newer still, and had no background of daydreams to stand against. Moreover, things had gone with such a rush that I had had no time to shake and sift them into order. At the foot of that wall all I knew, and that but dimly, was that there were thoughts that made a man's work the one thing worth living for. "Get your breath, madam," said I. "You want it all now, and there's no need to hurry." She leaned easily against the wall, and peered round to make out her surroundings. The only result could be to give her the impression that she was cooped up like a rat in a trap, but with characteristic indifference for herself, she only said: "And this was your school?" "For many years, seven or more." She was silent for a time and then went on. "You have led a quiet life, Master Wheatman?" "Ha," thought I, "she's gauging my capacity to help her," and added aloud, bitterly reminiscent, "The life of a yokel, madam." "You have read much?" "Yes, I'm fond of reading. It passes the long winter nights." "And no doubt you know by heart the merry gests of Robin Hood and the admirable exploits of Claude Duval?" I felt her eyes on me in the dark, and longed for the sun so that I could see the blue glint in them. "No such rubbish, indeed," said I hotly. It was a slight on Master Bloggs, droning away yonder at the fall of Troy, not to say the sweet old vicar. "What then?" "Livy and Caesar, and stuff like that, but mainly Virgil." "Then it's very, very curious," she whispered emphatically.