“Here?”
“Well, lass, not ’xactly here, I don’t mean that; but he be about a lookin’ after the men. Ye see he’s been my right hand, aye, and the left too I’m thinkin’.”
Patty found Stoke Ferry Farm as clean as a pink, both inside and out.
During her absence it had been put in thorough repair. It was never much out of order, but now it was a perfect model in its way.
The house was a substantial affair, as red and ugly as a British uniform, relieved at the corners with white stone facings.
Whether the farmer had sent word to John Ashbrook or not it would be difficult to determine. The fact, however, was clearly demonstrated.
Patty had not been in the house half an hour before Ashbrook made his appearance in the large room which served as a parlour.
He was, as usual, very attentive to the farmer’s daughter, and that was all.
But anyone who saw them together would not be far out in their reckoning if they came to the conclusion that he had a sneaking fondness for her.
Old Jamblin was a sociable man, and very few evenings passed in which some neighbour did not drop in to smoke a pipe, have a glass of grog, or a hand at short whist.