"Who?" asked Rose, severely, for the girl's tone had that sort of pert simplicity, or simple pertness, that children can put on when they know they are giving unpleasant information, but will not seem to understand it.
"With Mr. Wingfield, the gentleman's groom up at the Arms," said she. "He be her young man."
Ambrose Cuthbert turned his head outwards to hide a smile. Rose said hotly, "Hold your tongue, child! don't be saucy! Come, Amy, here is some mistake."
"Stay, Rose," said Mrs. Cuthbert, "the child is really very ill. Has he a mother? Something ought to be done."
Rose did not feel as if she could care for the boy at such a moment, and just then old Mrs. Rowe, brought by the sound of voices, came in by the back door.
"Ay! Rose Lee," she said. "If you wants to know where your fine niece is, just look here. I never knew no good come of bringing up young folks to be better than their neighbours, going about a visiting as if they was ladies."
Rose had reached the back garden, and over the broken-down little gate she saw—in the path shaded by the coppice—three figures whom she knew only too well, sauntering towards the stile leading into the lane.
She felt quite giddy, as she called out sharply, "Amy Lee!"
There was a great start. The three stood still, and looked about as if to see where the voice came from. Rose, recollecting the old woman's malicious eyes, got over the stile and came towards them. They had seen her by this time; she perceived that they were whispering; then the man retreated, and Florence and Amy came towards her, Florence holding Amy's hand, and pushing to the front.
"Miss Lee," she said, "we weren't doing no harm. Only taking a walk before coming in."