It has been a warm afternoon, and I sat with the window open in the parlour, singing and sewing; Ephraim was out in the parish. I was turning down a hem when a voice in the garden spoke to me,—
“An’t like you, Madam, to give a drink of whey to a poor soldier?”
There was a slight Scots accent with the words.
“Whence come you?” I said.
“I fought at Prestonpans,” he answered. He looked a youngish man, but very ragged and bemired.
“On which side?” I said, as I rose up. Of course I was not going to refuse him food and drink, however that might be, but I dare say I should have made it a little more dainty for one of Prince Charlie’s troops than for a Hanoverian, and I felt pretty sure he was the former from his accent.
I fancied I saw a twinkle in his eyes.
“The side you are on, Madam,” said he.
“How can you know which side I am on?” said I. “Come round to the back-door, friend, and I will find you a drink of whey.”
“I suppose,” said my beggar, looking down at himself, “I don’t look quite good enough for the front door. But I am an officer for all that, Madam.”