“Do you believe in the witch still, Mistress Nell?” said Harry, slyly.
“No, sir; not since I went down to help my aunt give out the dole one day, and saw her eyes look out under old Goody Martin’s hood. Doubtless she knew us all well, having been at the manor every week. Oh, you need not laugh; when I change my mind, I say so.”
“I wish there was another witch near Lisbon, whom you longed secretly to consult about your sister,” said Harry in an insinuating tone.
“Sir, when I wandered in the woods by moonlight, I was a silly little girl; now I am a woman, and wiser. Alack! I think I miss the dogs and the fresh breeze, and I know I miss my dear aunt and uncle. This old home is very new. I halt and stammer when my father speaks Portuguese. I am altogether an English girl.”
“There is no speech like English,” said Harry; “I love it best.”
“Oh, you have grown to look quite like a foreigner,” said Nella, saucily. “I am but a country maid, and your court is too solemn for me.” There was an indescribably joyous sweetness in Nella’s voice and manner that took from her gay retorts anything of boldness.
“See, Harry,” she continued. “To-morrow I am to be presented to the queen; I practise my reverence every day.”
She came up to him as she spoke, making a low, sweeping curtsey.
“Rise, fair Señorita,” said Harry; “our poor court is honoured by such a guest.”
“Now—now, I know you are no longer an Englishman!” cried Nella. “That speech was never learned in Devon!”