bottle of cinnamon
water, divers pots of conserves and honey, a roll of butter, a
half-dozen of eggs (which at this present are ill to come by, for the
hens will scarce lay this frost weather); and two of the new foreign
fruit called oranges [first introduced in 1568], which have been of late
brought from abroad, and _Ned_ did bring unto _Mother_ a little basket
of them.

We had an ill walk, for there hath been frost after snow, and the roads
be slippy as they were greased with butter. Howbeit, we come at last
safe to _Madge's_ door, and there found daft _Madge_ in a great chair
afore the fire, propped up of pillows, and old _Madge_ her grandmother
sat a-sewing, with her horn-glasses across her nose, and by her old
_Isaac Crewdson_, that is daft _Madge_ her grandfather of the other
side. She smiled all o'er her face when she saw us, and did feebly clap
her hands, as she is wont to do when rare pleased.

"Good morrow, _Madge_!" saith Aunt _Joyce_. "See thou, my Lady
_Lettice_ hath sent thee a basket of good things, to strengthen thee up
a bit."

_Madge_ took Aunt _Joyce's_ hand, and kissed it.

"They'll be good, but your faces be better," saith she.

Old _Madge_ gat her up, and bustled about, unpacking of the basket, and
crying out o' pleasure as she came to each thing and told what it were.
But daft _Madge_ seemed not much to care what were therein, though she
was ever wont dearly to love sweets, there being (I reckon) so few
pleasures she had wit for. Only she sat still, gazing from Aunt _Joyce_
to me, and smiling on us.

"What art thinking, _Madge_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.

For, natural [idiot] though she be, _Madge_ is alway thinking. 'Tis
very nigh as though there were a soul within her which tried hard to see
through the smoked glass of her poor brains. Nay, I take it, so there
is.

"I were thinking," saith she, "a-looking on your faces, what like it'll
be to see His Face."

_Madge_ hath rarely any name for God. It is mostly "He."

"Wouldst love to see it, _Madge_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_.

"Shall," quoth she, "right soon. He sent me word, Mistress _Joyce_,
yestereven."

"Ay," saith old _Isaac_, "she reckons she's going."

"Wilt be glad, _Madge_?" saith Aunt _Joyce_, softly.

"Glad!" she makes answer. "Eh, Mistress _Joyce_--glad! Why, 'twill be
better than plum-porridge!"

Poor _Madge_!--she took the best symbol she had wit for.

"Ay, my lass, it'll be better nor aught down here," saith old