“Much about the same, thank you, Mr. Stuart. Were you wanting Reuben, sir?”
“Yes. I did rather want to see him,” replied the young man a little hesitatingly. “I am anxious to hear about that poaching affair the other night.”
“It weren’t nothing at all, sir,” Mrs. Morris said, in her low, weak voice. “Reuben was out nigh most of the night, but couldn’t see a soul.”
“Well, I’m glad of it,” observed Mr. Crosbie warmly, “for between ourselves, Mrs. Morris, I confess my sympathies go entirely with the poachers.”
Mrs. Morris smiled faintly.
“Ah, you ain’t Sir Hubert, sir! He don’t hold them views. You would give the whole village welcome to the birds; but he’s different.”
“Yes, we are rather opposed in some ways,” remarked the young squire, dryly. “Is it true, Mrs. Morris, that Sir Hubert and Lady Coningham are coming home?’
“Yes, sir; Mrs. Brown, the housekeeper, come to see me yesterday, and she says her ladyship is expected next week. Ah, I am glad I shall see her again! I began to fear I should die before she came back.”
“You must cheer up,” said Stuart, gently, “and not talk about dying. Why are you here all alone? Where is Margery?”
“She’s gone out, sir. She would go all the way to Farmer Bright’s to fetch me some fresh eggs; our hens are bad at laying just now. But she ought to be in directly, sir. She started at dinner-time, and it’s now close on three o’clock.”