"We niver lost it, we're only lukin' for it," said Jane.
The policeman thought for a moment. "I think I know where I could lay my han' on a nice wee coally pup, if that'd content ye," he said.
Jane thanked him kindly, and they continued their search. When they had been walking for about two hours Mick began to despair.
"We're sure to fin' it," Jane assured him. "Somebuddy's stole it; let's luk in people's back yards." Back yards were hard to get at in town. They listened for barks, and followed up the sound. Three times a bark led them back by different ways to the same dog. Then they were chased by owners of back yards, and once Jane tore her frock climbing over a shed. Jane never thought of giving in. The lost dog was to be sent in answer to her prayer to give her the money she needed so badly. At last they came to an open door, through which they saw into a yard, and there by a kennel sat a big red dog. Jane gave a shout of joy.
"Toby, good Toby!" she called. "Is it here ye're settlin', and' us lukin' the town for ye?" The dog was chained, but they unfastened him, and with the help of a slice of bread and butter Jane had with her for luncheon they coaxed him from the yard. It was well they kept him on the chain, for once they got out Toby began to run. He was a big dog, and pulled hard. Both the children held tight to the chain, and still he pulled them at a run through the streets. At last they were so tired they had to rest. They sat down on a curbstone, with Toby between them, and were just beginning to discuss the reward when a heavy hand fell on Mick's shoulder. It was the school porter. In spite of their protests he insisted that Mick was playing truant, and marched him off to school. Jane, left alone with Toby, debated what she ought to do. The reward was to be got in a village three or four miles at the other side of Rowallan, so she would have to wait and go back with Andy. But there was still an hour and a half before he would call at Miss Courtney's to take her home. She decided that it was her duty to go back to school till he came. She could explain to Miss Courtney that Toby was a valuable dog she had found. She could also tell the big girls, with perfect truth, that she would bring five shillings next day. When she got up to go Toby started at the same bounding pace, dragging her through mud and puddles. But she got him to the place where Mick had hidden the schoolbags. Then, with her bag in her hand, she stood for a moment in doubt.
"I wouldn't take ye if I didn't think ye'd be as good as gold," she said. Toby wagged his tail. As she was taking off her hat in the cloakroom she warned him once more that he must be good. He seemed to understand perfectly, and walked quietly by her side to the schoolroom door. When she opened the door everybody looked up; there was a murmur of astonishment, and before she could stop him Toby had bounded from her, and was barking furiously at the infant class. All the children screamed. Jane did her best to catch him, but he got away from her. The big girls jumped on tables and forms, the little ones huddled behind each other. Miss Courtney stood on a chair.
"He'll not hurt ye," Jane tried to assure them. "Quit yer yellin', an' he'll be as quiet as a lamb."
"Turn him out, turn him out!" screamed Miss Courtney. At last Jane succeeded in catching Toby by the collar.
"Ye bad ruffan," she said, "scarin' the wits out a' iverybody." The noise died down except for the wailing of a few children who were still frightened. Miss Courtney rang for a servant, and ordered her to turn the dog out. Jane explained that this was impossible; Toby was a valuable dog she had found, and she must take him home to his owner. Miss Courtney would not listen to her. The dog was to be sent away at once. Jane, when she saw Miss Courtney was frightened of Toby, said she would take him away herself. But, to her surprise, this was not allowed. She was to stay, and the dog was to go. Miss Courtney would not listen to reason. It was nothing to her that Toby was valuable, that there was ten shillings reward for him, that Jane had had great trouble finding him. Jane was a wicked girl, she said, and the dog must go. Jane could not see why she was in disgrace—she had done nothing wrong. It was Toby who had frightened them. But astonishment soon gave place to tears. Miss Courtney made it plain that she must be obeyed. The servant, afraid to touch Toby herself, led Jane weeping to the front door to turn him out. The moment the door was opened Toby bounded away, dragging his chain after him. Once he stopped to look back; then, as Jane did not follow, he went on alone. The servant was unsympathetic; she knew nothing of the bewildered disappointment in Jane's heart. She said Jane deserved to be whipped. A far more awful punishment was in store. Jane was condemned to stand in the corner till she had fulfilled all the hours she had wasted in the streets. Jane was terrified. She forgot the disgrace, forgot the lost reward, forgot the scorn the big girls would heap on her when they found she had no money. If she had to stay there till six o'clock Andy would go away without her, and she would have to walk all those long miles back to Rowallan in the dark alone. She begged Miss Courtney to let her go; she prayed God to soften Miss Courtney's heart. But it was all in vain. When the other children went home a Bible was put into her hands, and she was told to learn the fifty-first Psalm. She got no further than "Have mercy upon me, O God." Misery such as she had never known before overwhelmed her. Perhaps she would never get home again. Anything might happen in those long, long hours. Everybody might die in her absence. Perhaps, when she got out of school at last, and tramped the long miles home, and ran past the shadow of the gates up the dark avenue, she would put her hand on the bell, and hear it echo in an empty house. Everyone would have grown up and gone away years ago, and left her.
The light began to fade from the sky, and Jane could bear her misery no longer. She determined to run away. She crept quietly across the floor to the door. As she opened it she heard Miss Courtney's footstep on the stairs. For a moment Jane's heart was sick with fear; then, in despair, she ducked her head, and charged for freedom. Miss Courtney went down three steps backwards way. Jane never stopped. She seized her coat and hat, and ran out into the street. There at the gate was the car, with Andy and Mick waiting for her. She gave a sob of relief at the sight.
"Drive quick, Andy," she begged as she climbed up; "I'm feared I've kilt her."
"Ould divil," said Mick sympathetically. "One a' the girls tould me what she done. All I got was a slap with the cane."
Jane was laughing and crying by turns. "Her two feet was up in the air, but I'm feared thon crack must 'a' split her skull."
When she was calmer Mick broke the news that Toby was not a red setter at all. "It's a wonder the polis wasn't after yez," said Andy from the other side of the car, "stealin' dogs out a' people's back yards." Jane did not mind about Toby. She said it did not matter now, for she was never going back to Miss Courtney's again. She told Lull everything that evening. Lull thought Miss Courtney would forgive her, but Jane refused to go near the hated place again. So Patsy was sent to school with Mick, and Jane went back to do lessons with Mr Rannigan.
AN ENGLISH AUNT
No one had invited the English aunt to come over, so when a letter arrived one morning saying she would be with them that same day, and would they send the carriage to the station to meet her, everyone was surprised. The children were delighted at the thought of a visit from an unknown aunt: they had thought Aunt Mary was the only aunt they had. This strange Aunt Charlotte was their mother's sister, and, Patsy said, she was sure to bring them a present in her trunk. But Lull went about the house, getting ready a room in the nursery passage, dusting the drawing-room, and opening the windows, with a look in her eyes that was not of pleasure.
"Don't ye want Aunt Charlotte to come?" Jane asked her.
"Want her?" Lull snapped. "Why couldn't she come when she was wanted sore? What kep' her then, an' me prayin' night an' day for her?"
Jane stopped in the middle of the drawing-room floor with a soup tureen full of dog-daisies in her hands.
"There, I'll quit bletherin'!" Lull added. "None of yous mind, thank God, but—if I had 'a' had a young sister struck dumb in morshial agony haythen Turks wouldn't 'a' kep' me from her."
Lull flounced out of the room, and Jane was left standing in the middle of the floor. She had never heard Lull speak like that before. What did she mean? A young sister, she had said; their mother was the only sister Aunt Charlotte had. When was their mother struck dumb and Aunt Charlotte wouldn't come? Jane went out to the stable, where Andy Graham was putting the horse in the car. Honeybird was brushing his top hat for him at the far end of the stable, but Jane did not see her.
"Andy, when was mother struck dumb in morshial agony?" she said.
Andy dropped a trace. "By the holy poker! what put that in yer head?" he said.
"Lull said Aunt Charlotte wouldn't come when she was wanted sore, an' her young sister was struck dumb in morshial agony," said Jane.
"An' a fine ould clashbag Lull was to say the word," said Andy, picking up the trace.
"Tell us, Andy, an' I'll niver name it," said Jane.
"See here, Miss Jane," said Andy, "it's no talk for the likes a' yous to be hearin'. Sure, there's niver a wan would mind it at all if it wasn't for that ould targe of a Lull, an' it be to be as far back as the flood for her to forget."
"Go on, Andy; tell a buddy," Jane begged, "an' I'll not come over it to a livin' sowl."
"Sure, ye know all I know myself," said Andy. "The mistress was tarble bad, an' they sent for yer Aunt Charlotte, an' she wouldn't come."
"Why wouldn't she?" said Jane.
"God knows," said Andy. "She wouldn't, and Lull was clean dimented at the time for the want of her. An' I'm tellin' ye it got yer Aunt Charlotte an ill name about the place. There's many's the wan has it agin her to this day."
"Have you, Andy?" said Jane.
"Is it me! God forgive me, I could bear no malice. An' see an' forgit it yerself Miss Jane, for she'll be the good aunt to ye all yit."
Jane went slowly back to the house. She would have liked to consult Mick about it, but she had promised not to tell. The only thing to do was to wait till she could ask Aunt Charlotte herself.
Mick went to the station on the car to meet Aunt Charlotte. The others waited at the gate, two on each of the stone lions, to give a cheer when she arrived.
It was a long drive from the station, and they were stiff and cramped before the car came back, but Jane would not let them get down, for fear the car might turn the corner while they were down, and Aunt Charlotte would not get a proper welcome.
It came at last, and they hurrahed till they were hoarse. Aunt Charlotte sat on one side, and Mick on the other. There was a tin box between them on the well of the car. As the car came nearer they saw that Mick was making signs, shaking his head and frowning, and when the car turned in at the gate Aunt Charlotte looked straight in front of her, and did not even glance at the welcoming party on the lions.
They got down, and followed up the avenue. In a minute they were joined by Mick. "Let's hide," he said; "she's an ould divil."
Silently they turned away from the house, across the lawn, and dropped over the wall into the road. They went up the road till they came to an opening in the wall on the other side, where they filed through, and struck out across the fields. Sheep were feeding on the spongy grass, and as they got farther away from home rocks and boulders began to appear, and at last a long line of clear blue sea. Mick led the way till they came to a flat rock jutting out like a shelf over the sea, and here they sat down.
"What did she do?" Jane asked.
"She said I was no gentleman," said Mick.
Mick began his tale.
"When the train come in I went up to her, an' sez I: 'How'r' ye?' Sez she: 'Who are you?' Sez I: 'I'm Michael Darragh.' 'Is it possible?' sez she, an' ye should 'a' seen the ould face on her. Sez I: 'The car's waitin'.' 'Then tell the man to come for my luggage,' sez she."
"Oh Mick," gasped Jane, "what did ye do?"
"I didn't know what to do. I didn't like to say right out that Andy had got no livery on his legs, and daren't strip off the rug. So I sez: 'We'll get a porter to carry it out.' 'No,' sez she; 'I'd have to tip him. Tell the coachman to come.'"
"As mane as dirt," said Patsy.
"Sez I: 'He can't come, Aunt Charlotte, 'cause he can't get off the dickey.' 'What's the matter with him?' sez she. I was afraid I'd tell a lie, but I thought a bit, an' then I sez: 'He's disable.'"
"Good for you, Mickey Free!" Jane shouted.
"But it wasn't good, for when we started she begun astin' Andy what ailed him. Andy didn't know, so he said he was in the best of good health. Sez she: 'My nephew tould me you had been disabled.' 'Divil a fut, mem,' sez Andy; 'I'm as well as ye are yerself.' She got as red as fire, an' sez she: 'No gentleman tells lies, Michael!" Mick's face was white with anger.
"But ye tould no lie, Mickey dear," said Fly.
"An' ye couldn't tell her Andy had no white breeches," said Patsy.
"Dear forgive her," said Jane bitterly, "an' we thought she was an aunt."
They did not go home till it was getting dark. When they went into the kitchen Lull was sitting by the fire. "Well," she said, "did ye see yer Aunt Charlotte; she's out lukin' for ye?"
"She can luk till she's black for all I care," said Jane.
Their mother was sitting up in bed when they went in to say good-night, and they saw she had been crying.
"You are the best children in the world," she said, "but your Aunt Charlotte thinks you are barbarians."
"She's an ould divil, an' we just hate the sight a' her," said Patsy.
"'Deed, an' there's more than yous does that," said Lull.
"Hush, Lull," said their mother; "she is my sister, after all."
"Purty sister," Lull snorted, "comin' where she's not wanted, upsettin' everybuddy with her talk a' ruination."
"It's true, it's true," Mrs Darragh wailed, and began to cry again.
Lull hurried the children out of the room; they heard her comforting their mother as they went down the passage. They went to bed with heavy hearts. Jane said her prayers three times over, then cried herself to sleep.
Next morning Aunt Charlotte was down early. Fly and Patsy, who had been out to see if the gooseberries were ripe, met her in the hall as they came back.
"Good morning," she said. "I don't think I saw you yesterday. What are your names?"
"I am Fly, an' he is Patsy," Fly answered.
"What?" said Aunt Charlotte.
"Fly an' Patsy," Fly repeated, and was going past, but Aunt Charlotte pounced on some gooseberries Fly had in her pinafore. "What are you going to do with these?" she said.
"Ripe them," said Patsy, trying to get past.
"You cannot ripen green gooseberries off the bushes," said Aunt Charlotte.
"'Deed, then, ye just can," said Fly; "ye squeeze them till they're soft, an' then ye suck them till they're sweet."
"I am sure your nurse cannot allow you to do anything so disgusting," said Aunt Charlotte.
At this moment Lull came out of the schoolroom, where she had been laying the table for breakfast.
"M'Leary!" said Aunt Charlotte—they had never heard Lull called that before—"surely you cannot allow the children to eat such poisonous stuff as unripe gooseberries?"
Lull's eyes flashed fire for a second, then she said: "You lave them to me, mem," and took Fly and Patsy off to the kitchen, where they squeezed and sucked the gooseberries in peace.
At breakfast Aunt Charlotte asked questions about everything: who their neighbours were; where they visited; where they went to church.
"You see," she said, "I have not been here before, so you must tell me everything about your surroundings now."
"Why didn't ye come afore?" said Jane eagerly. "When ye were wanted sore, what kept ye then?"
"Little girls cannot understand the motives of their elders," Aunt Charlotte said sharply. "I was far from well, and the country was disturbed."
"What's disturbed?" said Patsy.
Her back stiffened. "Your fellow-countrymen were in a wicked state of rebellion against the powers ordained by God," she said.
"'Deed, an' who wouldn't fight the polis?" said Patsy. "Ye should 'a' seen the gran' fight we had last week on the twelfth."
"I understood that everything was quiet," Aunt Charlotte murmured.
"Lull was prayin' night an' day for ye to come. She was clean dimented for the want of ye," Jane went on, hoping Aunt Charlotte would explain. But Aunt Charlotte did nothing of the kind.
"We will not discuss the matter," she said; "I have told you it was impossible for me to come."
"I'm tellin' ye it got ye an ill name about the place," said Honeybird, looking up from her porridge; "there's many's a one has it agin ye to this day."
The children looked at each other in surprise. Honeybird had a way of repeating things she had picked up; but only Jane knew where she could have heard this, and a kick from Jane told her to be quiet. Aunt Charlotte's knife and fork dropped with a clatter on her plate. Her face was white as chalk. For a minute no one spoke. Aunt Charlotte drank some coffee, and shut her eyes. The children thought she had forgotten to say her grace till now; they went on with their breakfast, and in a few minutes she spoke again.
"I suppose you all like toys," she said.
The three younger ones brightened up.
"You know there are beautiful toys to be had in London, and I did think of bringing you some, but, then, I thought that out here in the country, with so many trees and flowers to play with, it would be like bringing coals to Newcastle."
They understood that she had brought nothing. Mick and Jane looked relieved, but Honeybird's eyes filled with tears. "Niver a wee dawl?" she said.
"What does she mean?" said Aunt Charlotte. "Oh, a little doll; the child speaks like a peasant."
No one answered. Honeybird's tears dropped into her lap. Fly passed her a ripened gooseberry under the table.
After breakfast Aunt Charlotte said they must show her the gardens and the stable. They had meant to go out bathing, and stay away all day; but there was no escaping from her, so they started off, to the stables first.
Aunt Charlotte shook her head over everything.
"Disgraceful neglect," they heard her say.
"We'll soon make it grand when our ship comes in," said Jane.
"What a strange expression," said Aunt Charlotte. "And, pray, when will that be?"
"God knows, for I don't," said Honeybird, repeating what Andy Graham always said when they asked him that question.
Aunt Charlotte looked at Honeybird, who was playing with the cat. "Do you know that you have taken your Maker's name in vain?" she said. "Go back to the house at once, you wicked child."
Honeybird stared, her grey eyes growing wider and wider.
"Do you hear me?" said Aunt Charlotte. "Go into the house at once."
With a gasp of horror Honeybird turned back across the yard, and they heard her go into the kitchen, sobbing: "Poor, poor wee me!"
"Now take me to see the kitchen garden," said Aunt Charlotte.
"Ould Davy'll be mad if we do," said Jane.
"I wish you would speak more distinctly," said Aunt Charlotte, "I cannot understand what you say."
"I on'y said ould Davy'd be cross," said Jane.
"What is his name? Who is he?" said Aunt Charlotte.
"'Deed, he's just ould Davy," said Patsy; "thon's him in among the cur'n' bushes."
But ould Davy spoke for himself.
"Be off wid yer," he shouted; "away home ar this, or if I catch the hould a' yer I'll cut yer throats."
"I tould ye he'd be cross," said Jane.
But Aunt Charlotte was running back to the house as fast her legs would carry her.
"She's feared," said Jane joyfully.
Patsy danced. "It'd be quare fun to take her to see Jane Dyer," he said.
They laughed at the thought till they had to sit down on the path.
"I wisht I could come with ye," said Jane, "but ould Jane's friends with me, so I can't."
"No; ye'll have to stay at home, Janey dear," said Mick; "she wouldn't lift a finger if she saw ye with us."
"It's all because I tuk her them ould boots," said Jane; "but yous three can go; an' mind ye run the minute she throws the first stone, for if ye stan' an' face her she's like a lamb."
A few minutes later Mick and Fly and Patsy came into the drawing-room, and asked Aunt Charlotte if she would like to go for a walk; they were going down to the sea, they said. Aunt Charlotte said she would be delighted to go. She put on her hat and gloves, and they started. On each side of the road was a wall of loose stones bound together by moss and brambles. In the distance, to their right, rose the mountains, and a turn of the road about a mile from home brought them in sight of the sea. They passed through the village, a long road of whitewashed cottages, with here and there a fuchsia bush by a door, a line of bright nasturtiums under a window, or a potato patch dotted with curly kale by the side of a house. Farther down the street the church stood back from the road in a graveyard full of tombstones and weeds. Aunt Charlotte said she was interested in churches, so they stopped to look at it. Coming back through the graveyard Mick showed her the tombstones of the rebels, with skull and crossbones on the top, and the grave of a great-uncle of theirs, who had been hanged at the time of the rebellion for deserting his friends.
"Serve him right, the ould traitor," said Patsy.
Aunt Charlotte was shocked. "If he was your great-uncle you should think of him with respect," she said.
"An' him an informer!" said Mick; "'deed, I'd 'a' kilt him myself, so I would. Andy Graham sez he'd 'a' japped the brains out a' him."
"Lull sez she'd 'a' napped him on the head with a wee blackthorn," said Fly. "But whist," she added, "I do believe the ould ruffian's lyin' in his grave listenin' to us."
Aunt Charlotte shivered. As they were going down the steps Patsy stopped. "Look at them two ould rats," he said, "sittin' there on the wall like ould men. They're just sayin' which of us all will be brought here the first."
Aunt Charlotte gave a little scream, and ran out into the road. "You children have such morbid minds," she said; "indeed," with a little laugh, "you have made me quite nervous."
About five minutes' walk from the village they came to a lane that ran down to the sea, black mud underfoot and stone walls on each side. The lane widened into a small farmyard. There was a low cottage, a stack of peat, and two or three hens picking about in the mud.
"What a squalid scene!" said Aunt Charlotte. "Is it possible that any human being can live here?"
The children did not answer, for, to their disappointment, the door was shut. "She's out!" Mick said.
A few yards from the cottage the land ended on the seashore. The sand was covered with brown seaweed; a cart filled with it was propped up on stones. Bits of cork and wood were strewn about in every direction, and beyond the line of dry seaweed there were big round stones covered with golden brown seaweed, still wet, for the tide was only half-way out.
Aunt Charlotte didn't like this sea very much. She said it was all so untidy. Not even the beautiful green crabs that Fly caught under the wet seaweed pleased her, so after a few minutes they turned back. The children were afraid that Jane Dyer would not have come home yet, but just as they passed the cottage Aunt Charlotte suddenly gripped hold of Mick's arm.
"Who is that," she said sharply; "there, coming down the lane?" Fly gave a hysterical giggle. Coming towards them down the lane was a tall figure dressed in an old green ulster coat, tied in round the waist by an apron; white hair fell about a flat white face, and big bare feet splashed in the mud. As it came it muttered and frowned and shook its fist.
"Who is it, I say?" said Aunt Charlotte.
"It's Jane Dyer," said Mick.
Patsy gave a loud 'Hee-haw,' that was supposed to remind Jane of her dead donkey, and always made her wild with rage, even if the sight of visitors in her lane had not already made her angry. She came swinging along, muttering and cursing to herself, stopping here and there to pick up a stone, till her apron was full. Then, with a sudden leap in the air, she aimed. The stone hit Fly on the shin; she gave a yell of pain, and was over the wall in a second. The boys followed, while a volley of stones and curses came from the lane. Aunt Charlotte was left behind. They heard her scrambling over the wall, the loose stones rolling off as she scrambled, and as they ran they could hear her panting: "My God, my God, this is awful!"
Two fields away the boys found Fly sitting on a bank nursing her leg. "Did ye hear her takin' her Maker's name in vain?" said Patsy, and he rolled on the grass with laughter.
"I niver seen ould Jane in better fettle," said Mick.
"If we'd had any wit we'd 'a' set Sammy on her too," said Fly.
"We'll do it yit," said Patsy, and there and then they began to run like hares along the road to the cottage where Sammy lived. Sammy was an innocent, and lived in a one-roomed cottage on the roadside that was entirely hidden from sight by the rowan-trees that grew round it. He was a little old man, who spent his days attending to his sister's pig. There was not a more peaceable soul in the countryside, but on the subject of the pig Sammy could be roused to fury. He talked to it, sang to it, fed it out of his hand. When he walked about the fields the pig followed at his heels, when he sat on the doorstep it lay at his feet. But if one of the village children threw a stone at it, or if any threatened in joke to harm it, Sammy was beside himself with rage, and it was an insult he never forgot. Twice a week he came to Rowallan for the refuse and broken meat, and, next to the pig, he loved the children. He was at home when they knocked at the door, and came out at once.
"M-m-m-m-mornin'!" he stammered.
They were out of breath, and could hardly speak. Sammy began to look frightened; it was so easy to scare his few wits away.
"Oh, Sammy, she's comin' after yer pig," Fly panted.
"Wh-wh-wh-where?" Sammy shouted.
"Along the road," said Patsy; "she'll be here in a minute; a long string of a woman with a black dress on. She's clean mad to get at it; ye'd better be out, an' chase her."
"L-l-l-l-let me at her!" roared Sammy, picking up his bucket.
"She's comin' to kill it, Sammy," said Mick; "she come all the way from England to do it."
Sammy was dancing on the doorstep. "Hide down behind the wall till she comes," said Patsy, and they pulled Sammy down with them.
"Whist, Sammy; be quiet, man, till she comes," said Mick—for Sammy was snorting and quivering. "I'll give ye the word when I see her."
In about five minutes Aunt Charlotte came in sight. They saw her through the holes in the wall, limping slowly, and looking back over her shoulder every few steps. Her hair was down, and she was trying to fasten it up. Mick nudged Fly and Patsy not to speak, and gave Aunt Charlotte time to pass the cottage before he said: "Here she comes, Sammy." Sammy jumped up, and out on to the road, waving his bucket over his head, and roaring: "Ye-ye-ye-ye ould butcher, E-e-e-e-english butcher, I'll-'ll-'ll-'ll bite ye."
There was a half-stifled scream as Aunt Charlotte turned for a second, and the next moment she was out of sight. Sammy danced on the road, and yelled after her till he was hoarse, then he came back to where the children were crouched down behind the wall.
"S-s-s-she was aff like the wind, af-af-af-fore I could touch her," he said, "b-b-but I'll kill her th-th-the next time."
They shook hands with him, and told him he was a brave man. Then they went down to the sea, and bathed, and stayed out till it was tea-time. Jane and Honeybird met them at the door when they got home. "She's away back to England," they chanted.
The others could hardly believe their ears. "She came back all mud and dirt," said Jane, "with her hair a-hingin' in her eyes, an' said we were all haythens an' savages, an' she wouldn't stay another day in this blackguardy country."
Lull questioned them while they were having supper. "An' what an' iver did ye do to send yer Aunt Charlotte home like thon?" she said.
"'Deed, we just tuk her to see Jane Dyer," said Patsy.
Lull looked at him for a minute. "There's a hape a' wisdom in a chile," she said at last.
THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH.
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