Winter's Tale

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“Is the will here?” he said. “I need …”

“Thou hast no need of wills,” I said, putting my hand upon his poor hot brow. “You have but a fever, husband. You should not have stayed so late last eve with Master Drayton.”

“A fever?” he said. “Aye, it must be so. It was raining when I rode home, and now my head is like to split in twain.”

“I have sent to John for medicine. It will be here soon.”

“John?” he said, alarmed, half rising in the bed. “I had forgot Old John. I must needs bequeath the old man something. When he came to London—”

“I spoke of John Hall, thy son-in-law,” I said. “He will bring you somewhat for thy fever.”

“I must leave Old John something in my will, that he’ll keep silence.”

“Old John will not betray you,” I said. He hath been silent, lo, these twelve winters, buried in Trinity Church, no danger to anyone. “Hush, thee, and rest awhile.”

“I would leave him something of gaud and glitter. The gilt-and-silver bowl I sent thee from London. Do you remember it?”

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