“Oh! ain’t it just like a chicken coop?” merrily demanded Owlet.
“Something of the sort,” assented Roma.
They entered the cabin, and found Lucy mending old clothes, and Tom, who had returned from the restaurant, was actually helping her, with needle, thread and thimble.
As soon as Tom saw the visitors he sneaked his work behind his back, with all a boy’s false shame at being caught at woman’s work.
“Mornin’ youn’ mist’ess. Hopes I sees yo’ well, ma’am,” said Lucy, rising and placing two three-legged chairs for her visitors. “How do, Miss Cafferine? Yo’ doane look as peart as yo’ used to did. Been sick?”
“Yes,” said Owlet as she seated herself on a very low stool beside Miss Fronde’s rather larger one. “I should think I had been sick. And I have been away from Lady so long—years and years and years. And I have had ’ventures. Not stories, mind you, like Jack the Giant Killer, and that, because that’s nonsense; but real, bloody-minded ’ventures. No wonder I look bad. Wonder my hair isn’t turned gray. I should have been dead and gone by this time if Mr. William hadn’t found me and fetched me back.”
Lucy, with eyes and mouth both wide open, turned from the child to the lady, and inquired:
“Wot de yittle fing mean, youn’ mist’ess?”
“She was stolen from me while we were at Goblin Hall, and she has been very ill. But she was brought back to me, safe and well, last night. We will not talk any more about it at present, Lucy.”
“All yight, youn’ mist’ess, ef yo’ say so, we won’t. But, oh, the williany ob some people on dis yeth! Ef eber I cotch my eye on dat lowlife trash, whoeber it was wot don’ it—umph-humphe!—dere’ll be a foot yace or a fun’al. Now min’!”