She woke and slept,
but was quite aware when Patience rose up after a brief doze, and
found the first streaks of dawn in the sky, a cuckoo calling as if
for very life in the nearest tree, and Steadfast quietly sweeping the
dew from the grass in a little open space shut in by rocks, trees,
and bushes, close to the bank of the brook.
A chest which he kept in the cow-shed, and which bore traces of the
fire in the old house, had been brought down to serve as an Altar,
and it was laid over, for want of anything better, with one of poor
Mrs. Kenton's best table-cloths, which Patience had always thought
too good for use.
The next thing was to meet the rest of the scanty congregation at the
entrances of the wood, and guide them to the spot. This was safely
done, Goody Grace knew the way, and had guided one of the old Elmwood
maid servants whom she had managed to shelter for the night. Mrs.
Lightfoot was there with Mrs. Rivett, her daughter, elder son, and a
grave-looking man servant, Mr. Henshaw, a Barbados merchant, with his
wife, and a very worn battered shabby personage, but unmistakably a
gentleman of quality, and wounded in the wars, for he was so lame
that the merchant had to help him over the rough paths.
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