“You are to deliver it into the hands of Mr. Rawton.”
“And bring an answer?”
“Yes, if you can, that will be all the better, but we leave here the day after to-morrow—remember that.”
“I’ll be here afore you leave, please the pigs!” cried Cooney, as he left.
“What a common brute!” exclaimed Amy, after he had left. “He is a coarse common sort of man, but I suppose he will keep his word—at least, I hope so, for missus seems to be very anxious about Rawton for some reason or another, which I can’t quite make out.”
Cooney was sufficiently faithful to his pal the gipsy not to let anybody know his hiding-place; but he had very little difficulty in delivering the letter to its rightful owner on the evening of the day upon which it had been placed in his hands by the girl, Amy, whom he still declared to be the most aggravating, charming creature he had ever set eyes upon.
On the following day he returned with an answer to the epistle which had been entrusted to his care.
“I’m here again,” said he to Amy, when she opened the door; “I can’t keep away from you. You’re in my thoughts by day and by night; I can’t sleep for thinking of you.”
“I don’t intend to listen to any more of your nonsense, you impudent vulgar fellow,” returned the girl, in an angry tone, “and so you’d better conduct yourself in a more becoming manner. If you don’t, I shall have to tell my mistress, who, I am sure, will forbid you coming again to this house.”
“What for? I aint said or done nothing that any one can complain of. Here’s a jolly sell. Well, I’m blowed.”