Out of the circling
waters it had flown home, not from a long voyage, but hardly the less
welcome therefore to those that waited and looked for her signal from the
barrier rock.
Reentering by the angels' door to descend the narrow cork-screw stair, so
dark and cool, I caught a glimpse, one turn down, by the feeble light that
came through its chinks after it was shut behind us, of a tiny maiden-hair
fern growing out of the wall. I stopped, and said to the old woman--
"I have a sick daughter at home, or I wouldn't rob your tower of this
lovely little thing."
"Well, sir, what eyes you have! I never saw the thing before. Do take it
home to miss. It'll do her good to see it. I be main sorry to hear you've
got a sick maiden. She ben't a bedlar, be she, sir?"
I was busy with my knife getting out all the roots I could without hurting
them, and before I had succeeded I had remembered Turner's using the word.
"Not quite that," I answered, "but she can't even sit up, and must be
carried everywhere."
"Poor dear! Everyone has their troubles, sir. The sea's been mine."
She continued talking and asking kind questions about Connie as we went
down the stair.
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