Stead was two-and-twenty, a sturdy well-grown fellow, but the hard
work he had been obliged to do as a growing lad, had rounded his
shoulders, and he certainly did not walk like the men who had been
drilled for soldiers. His face was healthy and sunburnt, with fair
short hair and straightforward grey eyes. At the first glance people
would say, "What a heavy-looking, clownish young man," but at the
second there was something that made a crying child in the street
turn to him for help in distress, and made the marketing dames secure
that he told the truth about his wares.
Patience was rather startled by seeing him laboriously tying up a
posy of wild rose, honeysuckle, and forget-me-not, and told him the
Bristol folks would not buy those common wild flowers.
"They are for none of them," replied Stead, a little gruffly, and
colouring hotly at being caught.
"Oh!" said Patience, in her simplicity. "Are they for Emlyn? I do
not think her mistress will let you see her."
"I shall," said Stead. "She ought to know of our good fortune.
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