A woman of whom he inquired for John Swinton's cottage told him
that it was the last on the left. Although he told himself that he
had nothing to be afraid of, it needed all Ned's determination to
nerve himself to tap at the door of the low thatched cottage. A
young woman opened it.
"If you please," Ned said, "I have come to see Bill; the doctor
said he would see me. It was I who hurt him, but indeed I didn't
mean to do it."
"A noice bizness yoi've made of it atween ee," the woman said, but
in a not unkind voice. "Who'd ha' thought as Bill would ha' got
hurted by such a little un as thou be'st; but coom in, he will be
main glad to see ee, and thy feyther ha' been very good in sending
up all sorts o' things for him. He's been very nigh agooing whoam,
but I believe them things kept un from it."
The cottage contained but two rooms. In a corner of the living
room, into which Ned followed the woman, Bill Swinton lay upon a
bed which Captain Sankey had sent up. Ned would not have known him
again, and could scarce believe that the thin, feeble figure was
the sturdy, strong built boy with whom he had struggled on the
moor. His eyes filled with tears as he went up to the bedside.
"I am so sorry!" he said; "I have grieved so all the time you have
been ill."
"It's all roight, young un," the boy said in a low voice, "thar's
no call vor to fret. It warn't thy fault; thou couldn't not tell
why oi would not let ee pass, and ye were roight enough to foight
rather than to toorn back.
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