"FATHER'S COME TOO!"
"Why, my dear hearts!" cried old Mrs Silverside, as the children came
in. "How won ye hither?"
"Please, we haven't been naughty," said Will, rubbing his eyes with his
knuckles.
"Father's come too, so it's all right," added Cissy in a satisfied tone.
Mrs Silverside turned to Robert Purcas. "Is not here a lesson for thee
and me, my brother? Our Father is come too: God is with us, and thus it
is all right."
"Marry, these heretics beareth a good brag!" said Wastborowe the gaoler
to his man.
It is bad grammar now to use a singular verb with a plural noun; but in
1556 it was correct English over the whole south of England, and the use
of the singular with the singular, or the plural with the plural, was a
peculiarity of the northern dialect.
"They always doth," answered the under-gaoler.
"Will ye be of as good courage, think you," asked Wastborowe, "the day
ye stand up by Colne Water?"
"God knoweth," was the reverent answer of Mrs Silverside. "If He holds
us up, then shall we stand."
"They be safe kept whom He keepeth," said Johnson.
"Please, Mr Wastborowe," said Cissy in a businesslike manner, "would
you mind telling me when we shall be burned?"
The gaoler turned round and stared at his questioner.
"Thou aren't like to be burned, I reckon," said he with a laugh.
"I must, if Father is," was Cissy's calm response. "It'll hurt a bit, I
suppose; but you see when we get to Heaven afterwards, every thing will
be so good and pleasant, I don't think we need care much. Do you,
please, Mr Wastborowe?"
"Marry come up, thou scrap of a chirping canary!" answered the gaoler,
half roughly and half amused. "If babes like this be in such minds,
'tis no marvel their fathers and mothers stand to it."
"But I'm not a baby, Mr Wastborowe!" said Cissy, rather affronted.
"Will and Baby are both younger than me. I'm going in ten, and I takes
care of Father."
Mr Wastborowe, who was drinking ale out of a huge tankard, removed it
from his lips to laugh.
"Mighty good care thou'lt take, I'll be bound!"
"Yes, I do, Mr Wastborowe," replied Cissy, quite gravely; "I dress
Father's meat and mend his clothes, and love him. That's taking care of
him, isn't it?"
The gaoler's men, who were accustomed to see every body in the prison
appear afraid of him, were evidently much amused by the perfect
fearlessness of Cissy. Wastborowe himself seemed to think it a very
good joke.
"And who takes care of thee?" asked he.