“I’ll come and get the weed, Mally; but it shall all be for you,” said Barty.
“Indeed, you won’t then, Barty dear,” said the mother; “you’ll never go near the awsome place again. What would we do if you were took from us?”
“He mustn’t go near the hole if he does,” said Mally, speaking at last in a solemn voice, and imparting the knowledge which she had kept to herself while Barty was her enemy; “’specially not if the wind’s any way from the nor’rard.”
“She’d better go down now,” said the father.
Barty kissed the hand which he held, and Mally, looking at him as he did so, thought that he was like an angel.
“You’ll come and see us to-morrow, Mally?” said he.
To this she made no answer, but followed Mrs. Gunliffe out of the room. When they were down in the kitchen the mother had tea for her, and thick milk, and a hot cake,—all the delicacies which the farm could afford. I don’t know that Mally cared much for the eating and drinking that night, but she began to think that the Gunliffes were good people,—very good people. It was better thus, at any rate, than being accused of murder and carried off to Camelford prison.
“I’ll never forget it on her—never,” the father had said.
Those words stuck to her from that moment, and seemed to sound in her ears all the night. How glad she was that Barty had come down to the cove,—oh, yes, how glad! There was no question of his dying now, and as for the blow on his forehead, what harm was that to a lad like him?
“But father shall go with you,” said Mrs. Gunliffe, when Mally prepared to start for the cove by herself. Mally, however, would not hear of this. She could find her way to the cove whether it was light or dark.