"The gentleman. He came across the road and begged my pardon. I'd got the poor dog in my arms, you see, and I suppose—well I don't know why he spoke, but perhaps it was because, being a gentleman, he felt ashamed of himself. If he didn't at first, I think he did when he went away," she added, with a laugh and a blush, as she remembered the words that had flown like darts of fire from her lips. "Oh, it was shameful! His face was cut, and there was blood"—she shuddered—"on his collar! He was a very handsome young man, too. I wonder who he was. Did I tell you he came down by the same train as I did?"
Mrs. Hale shook her head.
"No one I know, my dear," she said. "None of the gentry hereabouts would fight with any one, least of all a common man. A tall man, with an ugly face——"
"Oh, very ugly and evil-looking—I think they called him Pyke."
"Pyke—Jem Pyke!" said Mrs. Hale. "Oh, I know him; a dreadful bad character, my dear. I'm not surprised at his kicking a dog, or fighting either. He's one of our worst men—a poacher and a thief, so they say. I wonder he didn't get the best of it!"
"He got the very possible worst of it," said Margaret, with an unconscious tone of satisfaction. "There's the picture, grandma! And where will you hang it?"
It was a clever little picture; a bit of a London street, faithfully and carefully painted, and instinct with grace and feeling.
The old lady of course did not see all the good points, but she was none the less proud and delighted, and stood regarding it with admiring awe that rendered her speechless.
"You dear, clever girl," she said, kissing her, "and it is for me, really for me? Oh, Margaret, if your poor father——"