“Good-morning, sir,” she said, courtesying. “May I make so bold as to ask how the young squire is this morning?”
“Better—much better,” returned Sir Douglas.
“There, Margery—you hear?” the woman turned again to the figure—“better. Lor’, if there ain’t that baby awake! Excuse me, sir;” and, dropping a hasty courtesy, Mrs. Clark rushed into the house.
“You have come to inquire after the young squire?” Sir Douglas began, addressing the slender, black-robed girl in kindly tones.
The head was bent, the plain skirt was thick with dust; but there was about the young girl’s figure an air of unspeakable grace, and a tress of the red-gold hair that shone beneath the black straw hat gleamed as a touch of wondrous color to the somber picture.
Margery raised her head.
“Yes, sir,” she replied, and then stopped, almost in alarm. Sir Douglas had moved forward as his eyes rested on her face; his color faded to a deathly whiteness, and he almost staggered against the gate, his eyes still fixed on her wondrous countenance.
“Who are you? What is your name?” he gasped, rather than spoke.
“Margery Daw,” she answered, trembling a little with fear. Then, seeing his head droop, she added quickly: “You are ill, sir; let me get you some water.”
Sir Douglas put out a feeble hand.