“I was in the shade of the thicket yonder, sir; pardon me, I could not help hearing you.”
The Oxonian rubbed his eyes, and stared at the man with a vague impression that he had seen him before;—when? where?
“You can cure me,” he stuttered out; “what of?—the folly of trying to speak in public? Thank you, I am cured.”
“Nay, sir, you see before you a man who can make you a very good speaker. Your voice is naturally fine. I repeat, I can cure a defect which is not in the organ, but in the management!”
“You can! you—who and what are you?”
“A basketmaker, sir; I hope for your custom.” “Surely this is not the first time I have seen you?”
“True, you once kindly suffered me to borrow a resting-place on your father’s land. One good turn deserves another.”
At that moment Sir Isaac peered through the brambles, and restored to his original whiteness, and relieved from his false, horned ears, marched gravely towards the water, sniffed at the scholar, slightly wagged his tail, and buried himself amongst the reeds in search of a water-rat he had therein disturbed a week before, and always expected to find again.
The sight of the dog immediately cleared up the cloud in the scholar’s memory; but with recognition came back a keen curiosity and a sharp pang of remorse.
“And your little girl?” he asked, looking down abashed.