She walked straight up to him in her urgency, but suddenly dropped her arms. He stared at her, bewildered.
"I shall have no such thoughts, Miss Hetty."
CHAPTER XI.
Beyond the kitchen-garden a raised causeway led into the Bawtry road, between an old drain of the Tome River and a narrower ditch running down to the parsonage duck-pond. The ditch as a rule was dry, or almost dry, being fed through a sluice in the embankment from time to time when the waters of the duck-pond needed replenishing.
Half an hour later, as William Wright—who had business at Bawtry— left the yard by the small gate and came stepping briskly by the pond, Johnny Whitelamb pushed through the hedge at the end of the kitchen-garden, attempted a flying leap across the ditch and scrambled—with one leg plastered in mud to the knee—up to the causeway, where he stood waving his arms like a windmill and uttering sounds as rapid as they were incoherent.
The plumber, catching sight of this agitated figure on the path ahead, stood still for a moment. He understood neither the noises nor the uncouth gestures, but made sure that some accident had happened.
"Here, what's wrong?" he demanded, moving on and coming to a halt again in front of Johnny.
But still Johnny gurgled and choked. "You—you mustn't come here!"
"Eh, why not? What's doing?"
"You mustn't come here. You sha'n't—it's worse than murder!
P-promise me you won't come here again!"