Chapter Eight.
Not a bit afeard.
Alice Mount had only just spoken when the latch was lifted by Margaret Thurston.
“Pray you, let me come in and get my breath!” said she; “I’m that frighted I can scarce stand.”
“Come in, neighbour, and welcome,” replied Alice; and Rose set a chair for Margaret. “What ails you? is there a mad bull about, or what?”
“Mad bull, indeed! A mad bull’s no great shakes. Not to him, any way.”
“Well, I’d as soon not meet one in our lane,” said Alice; “but who’s him?”
“Him’s the priest, be sure! Met me up at top o’ the lane, he did, and he must needs turn him round and walk by me. I well-nigh cracked my skull trying to think of some excuse to be rid of him; but no such luck for me! On he came till we reached hither, and then I could bear no more, and I said I had to see you. He said he went about to see you afore long, but he wouldn’t come in to-day; so on he marched, and right thankful was I, be sure. Eh, the things he asked me! I’ve not been so hauled o’er the coals this year out.”