“No; I never do be working at all—I hate work.”
“Yes, but easy work, Terry,” said Miss Travers, “among the flowers and shrubs here.”
“No—I'd be quite low and sorrowful if I was to be staying in one place, and maybe—maybe”—here he whispered so low, as only to be heard by her—“maybe they'd find me out.”
“No; there's no fear of that,” said she, “we'll take care no one shall trouble you—stay here, Terry.”
“Well, I believe I will,” said he, after a pause, “I may go away when I like.”
“To be sure, and now let us see how you are to be lodged,” said Sir Marmaduke, who already, interested by that inexplicable feeling which grows out of our pity for idiotcy, entered into his daughter's schemes for poor Terry's welfare.
A small cottage near the boat-house on the verge of the lake, inhabited by a labourer and his children, offered the wished-for asylum, and there Terry was at once installed, and recognised as a member of the household.
CHAPTER VI. THE BLACK VALLEY.
Although deferred by the accidents of the morning, Sir Marmaduke's visit to the priest was not abandoned, and at length, he and his daughter set out on their excursion up the glen. Their road, after pursuing the highway for about two miles, diverged into a narrow valley, from which there was no exit save by the mode in which it was entered. Vast masses of granite rock, piled heap above heap, hung as it were suspended over their heads, the tangled honey-suckle falling in rich festoons from these, and the purple arbutus glowing like grape-clusters among the leaves. It was a mellow, autumnal day, when the warmth of colouring is sobered down by massive shadows—the impress of the clouds which moved slowly above. The air was hot and thick, and save when an occasional breeze came, wafted from the water, was even oppressive.