“Eh? what, you never—Be we anear Enville Court now?”
“O’er yon,” replied the man, pointing straight forward with his whip, and then giving it a sharp crack, as a reminder to the galloways.
“What, in the midst of yonder marsh?” cried poor Barbara.
Dick gave a hoarse chuckle, but made no other reply. Barbara’s sensations were coming very near despair.
“What call men your name, Master?” she demanded, after some minutes’ gloomy meditation.
“Name?” echoed the stolid individual before her.
“Ay,” said she.
“Dick o’ Will’s o’ Mally’s o’ Robin’s o’ Joan’s o’ owd Dick’s,” responded he, in a breath.
“Marry La’kin!” exclaimed Barbara, relieving her feelings by recourse to her favourite epithet. She took the whole pedigree to be a polysyllabic name. “Dear heart, to think of a country where the folk have names as long as a cart-rope!”
“Bab, I am aweary!” said little Clare, rousing up from a nap which she had taken leaning against Barbara.