Colonel Enderby was interrupted by Lucy’s running in calling out, “Mother, mother! there are no fowls but Partlet and the sitting hen, and the old cock, and I won’t have my dear old Partlet killed to be eaten by wicked Roundheads.”
“Come here, my little lady,” said the colonel, holding out his hand, amused by her vehemence.
“I won’t speak to a Roundhead,” returned Lucy, with a droll air of petulance, pleased at being courted.
Her mother spoke gravely. “You forget yourself, Lucy. This is Mr. Enderby, a friend of your dear father.”
Lucy’s cheeks glowed, and she looked down as she gave her hand to the colonel; but as he spoke kindly to her, her forward spirit revived, and she returned to the charge.
“You won’t have Partlet killed?”
Her mother would have silenced her, but the colonel smiled and said, “No, no, little lady; I would rather go without supper than let one feather of Dame Partlet be touched.”
“Nay, you need not do that either, sir,” said the little chatter-box, confidentially, “for we are to have a pie made of little Jenny’s pigeons; and I’ll tell you what, sir, no one makes raised crust half so well as sister Rose.”
Lady Woodley was not sorry to stop the current of her little girl’s communications by despatching her on another message, and asking Colonel Enderby whether he would not prefer taking a little rest in his room before supper-time, offering, at the same time all the remedies for bruises and wounds that every good housekeeper of the time was sure to possess.
She had a real regard for Mr. Enderby, who had been a great friend of her husband before the unhappy divisions of the period arrayed them on opposite sides, and even then, though true friendship could not last, a kindly feeling had always existed.